The New-York Book of Poetry

POEMS.

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THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

Ob: 1833, Æt. 25.

Many a sad, sweet thought have I, Many a passing, sunny gleam, Many a bright tear in mine eye, Many a wild and wandering dream, Stolen from hours I should have tied To musty volumes by my side, Given to hours that sweetly wooed My heart from its study's solitude.

Oft when the south wind's dancing free Over the earth and in the sky, And the flowers peep softly out to see The frolic Spring as she wantons by, When the breeze and beam like thieves come in, To steal me away, I deem it sin To slight their voice, and away I'm straying Over the hills and vales a Maying.

Then can I hear the earth rejoice, Happier than man may ever be, Every fountain hath then a voice That sings of its glad festivity; For it hath burst the chains, that bound Its currents dead in the frozen ground, And flashing away in the sun has gone, Singing, and singing, and singing on.

Autumn hath sunset hours, and then Many a musing mood I cherish, Many a hue of fancy, when The hues of earth are about to perish; Clouds are there, and brighter, I ween, Hath real sunset never seen, Sad as the faces of friends that die, And beautiful as their memory.

Love hath its thoughts, we cannot keep, Visions the mind may not control, Waking as fancy does in sleep The secret transports of the soul, Faces and forms are strangely mingled, Till one by one they're slowly singled, To the voice and lip, and eye of her I worship like an idolater.

Many a big, proud tear have I, When from my sweet and roaming track From the green earth and misty sky, And spring and love I hurry back; Then what a dismal, dreary gloom Settles upon my loathed room, Darker to every thought and sense Than if they had never travelled thence.

Yet, I have other thoughts that cheer The toilsome day, and lonely night, And many a scene and hope appear, And almost make me gay and bright. Honour and fame that I would win, Though every toil that yet hath been Were doubly borne, and not an hour Were brightly hued by Fancy's power.

And though I may sometimes sigh to think Of earth and heaven, and wind and sea, And know that the cup which others drink Shall never be brimmed by me; That many a joy must be untasted, And many a glorious breeze be wasted, Yet would not, if I dared, repine, That toil and study and care are mine.

THE SETTLER.

BY A. B. STREET.

His echoing axe the settler swung Amid the sea-like solitude, And rushing, thundering, down were flung The Titans of the wood; Loud shriek'd the eagle as he dash'd From out his mossy nest, which crash'd With its supporting bough, And the first sunlight, leaping, flash'd On the wolf's haunt below.

Rude was the garb, and strong the frame, Of him who plied his ceaseless toil: To form that garb, the wild-wood game Contributed their spoil; The soul, that warm'd that frame, disdain'd The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reign'd Where men their crowds collect; The simple fur, untrimm'd, unstain'd, This forest tamer deck'd.

The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees, The stream whose bright lips kiss'd their flowers, The winds that swell'd their harmonies Through those sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast—the green arcade, The nestling vale—the grassy glade, Dark cave and swampy lair; These scenes and sounds majestic, made His world, his pleasures, there.

His roof adorn'd a pleasant spot, 'Mid the black logs green glow'd the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not, Throve in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, The low—the bleat—the tinkling bell, All made a landscape strange, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change.

The violet sprung at Spring's first tinge, The rose of Summer spread its glow, The maize hung out its Autumn fringe, Rude Winter brought his snow; And still the lone one labour'd there, His shout and whistle woke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side.

He mark'd the fire-storm's blazing flood Roaring and crackling on its path, And scorching earth, and melting wood, Beneath its greedy wrath; He mark'd the rapid whirlwind shoot, Trampling the pine tree with its foot, And darkening thick the day With streaming bough and sever'd root, Hurl'd whizzing on its way.

His gaunt hound yell'd, his rifle flash'd, The grim bear hush'd his savage growl, In blood and foam the panther gnash'd His fangs, with dying howl; The fleet deer ceas'd its flying bound, Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, And with its moaning cry, The beaver sank beneath the wound Its pond-built Venice by.

Humble the lot, yet his the race! When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who throng'd in Conflict's deadliest place, To fight—to bleed—to die. Who cumber'd Bunker's height of red, By hope, through weary years were led, And witness'd York Town's sun Blaze on a Nation's banner spread, A Nation's freedom won.

THE WORST.

BY W. H. VINING.

Ob: 1822, Æt. 28.

Oh, I have lived through keenest care, And still may live through more, We know not what the heart can bear, Until the worst be o'er; The worst is not when fears assail, Before the shaft has sped, Nor when we kiss the visage, pale And beautiful, though dead. Oh, then the heart is nerved to cope With danger and distress, The very impulse left by hope Will make despair seem less; Then all is life—acute, intense, The thoughts in tumult tost, So reels the mind with wildered sense, It knows not what is lost. But when that shuddering scene is past, When earth receives her own, And, wrench'd from what it loved, at last The heart is left alone; When all is gone—our hopes and fears All buried in one tomb, And we have dried the source of tears, There comes a settled gloom. Then comes the worst, the undying thought That broods within the breast, Because its loveliest one is not, And what are all the rest?

MOONLIGHT ON THE HUDSON.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Written at West Point.

I'm not romantic, but, upon my word, There are some moments when one can't help feeling As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirred By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing A little music in his soul still lingers Whene'er its keys are touched by Nature's fingers:

And even here, upon this settee lying, With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing, Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying, Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing: For who can look on mountain, sky, and river, Like these, and then be cold and calm as ever?

Bright Dian, who, Camilla like, dost skim yon Azure fields—Thou who, once earthward bending, Didst loose thy virgin zone to young Endymion On dewy Latmos to his arms descending— Thou whom the world of old on every shore, Type of thy sex, Triformis, did adore:

Tell me—where'er thy silver barque be steering, By bright Italian or soft Persian lands, Or o'er those island-studded seas careering, Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands— Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover, A lovelier spot than this the wide world over?

Doth AchelÖus or Araxes flowing Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er meeting brothers— Doth Tagus o'er his golden pavement glowing, Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers, The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquiver, Match they in beauty my own glorious river?

What though no turret gray nor ivied column Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear? What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn Of despots tell and superstition here— What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls Did ne'er enclose a baron's bannered halls—

Its sinking arches once gave back as proud An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal, As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd As ever beat beneath a vest of steel, When herald's trump on knighthood's haughtiest day Called forth chivalric host to battle fray:

For here amid these woods did He keep court, Before whose mighty soul the common crowd Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed— He who his country's eagle taught to soar, And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.

And sights and sounds at which the world have wondered, Within these wild ravines have had their birth; Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered, And sent their startling echoes o'er the earth; And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary But treasures up within the glorious story.

And yet not rich in high-souled memories only, Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming, Each cavernous glen and leafy valley lonely, And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming: But such soft fancies here may breathe around, As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.

Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night— Thou that to love so oft hast lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light, Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole— Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's crest, And Night, more nearly now each step attending, As if to hide thy envied place of rest, Closes at last thy very couch beside, A matron curtaining a virgin bride.

Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting, While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver, As of the good when heavenward hence departing, Shines thy last smile upon the placid river. So—could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray— Would I too steal from this dark world away.

ANACREONTIC.

BY A. H. BOGART

Ob: 1826, Æt. 22

BY EDWARD SANFORD.

There's beauty on thy brow, old chief! the high And manly beauty of the Roman mould, And the keen flashing of thy full dark eye Speaks of a heart that years have not made cold; Of passions scathed not by the blight of time, Ambition, that survives the battle route. The man within thee scorns to play the mime To gaping crowds that compass thee about. Thou walkest, with thy warriors by thy side, Wrapped in fierce hate, and high unconquered pride.

Chief of a hundred warriors! dost thou yet— Vanquished and captive—dost thou deem that here— The glowing day star of thy glory set— Dull night has closed upon thy bright career? Old forest lion, caught and caged at last, Dost pant to roam again thy native wild? To gloat upon the life blood flowing fast Of thy crushed victims; and to slay the child, To dabble in the gore of wives and mothers, And kill, old Turk! thy harmless pale-faced brothers?

For it was cruel, Black Hawk, thus to flutter The dove-cotes of the peaceful pioneers, To let thy tribe commit such fierce, and utter Slaughter among the folks of the frontiers. Though thine be old, hereditary hate, Begot in wrongs, and nursed in blood, until It had become a madness, 'tis too late To crush the hordes who have the power, and will, To rob thee of thy hunting grounds, and fountains, And drive thee backward to the Rocky Mountains.

Spite of thy looks of cold indifference, There's much thou'st seen that must excite thy wonder, Wakes not upon thy quick and startled sense The cannon's harsh and pealing voice of thunder? Our big canoes, with white and wide-spread wings, That sweep the waters, as birds sweep the sky;— Our steamboats, with their iron lungs, like things Of breathing life, that dash and hurry by? Or if thou scorn'st the wonders of the ocean, What think'st thou of our railroad locomotion?

Thou'st seen our Museums, beheld the dummies That grin in darkness in their coffin cases; What think'st thou of the art of making mummies, So that the worms shrink from their dry embraces? Thou'st seen the mimic tyrants of the stage Strutting, in paint and feathers, for an hour; Thou'st heard the bellowing of their tragic rage, Seen their eyes glisten, and their dark brows lower. Anon, thou'st seen them, when their wrath cool'd down, Pass in a moment from a king—to clown.

Thou see'st these things unmoved, say'st so, old fellow? Then tell us, have the white man's glowing daughters Set thy cold blood in motion? Has't been mellow By a sly cup or so of our fire waters? They are thy people's deadliest poison. They First make them cowards, and then, white men's slaves, And sloth, and penury, and passion's prey, And lives of misery, and early graves. For by their power, believe me, not a day goes, But kills some Foxes, Sacs, and Winnebagoes.

Say, does thy wandering heart stray far away? To the deep bosom of thy forest home, The hill side, where thy young pappooses play, And ask, amid their sports, when thou wilt come? Come not the wailings of thy gentle squaws, For their lost warrior, loud upon thine ear, Piercing athwart the thunder of huzzas, That, yelled at every corner, meet thee here? The wife who made that shell-decked wampum belt, Thy rugged heart must think of her, and melt.

Chafes not thy heart, as chafes the panting breast Of the caged bird against his prison bars, That thou, the crowned warrior of the west, The victor of a hundred forest wars, Should'st in thy age, become a raree show Led, like a walking bear, about the town, A new caught monster, who is all the go, And stared at gratis, by the gaping clown? Boils not thy blood, while thus thou'rt led about, The sport and mockery of the rabble rout?

Whence came thy cold philosophy? whence came, Thou tearless, stern, and uncomplaining one, The power that taught thee thus to veil the flame Of thy fierce passions? Thou despisest fun, And thy proud spirit scorns the white men's glee, Save thy fierce sport, when at the funeral pile, Of a bound warrior in his agony, Who meets thy horrid laugh with dying smile. Thy face, in length, reminds one of a Quaker's, Thy dances, too, are solemn as a Shaker's.

Proud scion of a noble stem! thy tree Is blanched, and bare, and seared, and leafless now. I'll not insult its fallen majesty, Nor drive with careless hand, the ruthless plough Over its roots. Torn from its parent mould, Rich, warm and deep, its fresh, free, balmy air, No second verdure quickens in our cold New, barren earth; no life sustains it there. But even though prostrate, 'tis a noble thing, Though crownless, powerless, "every inch a king."

Give us thy hand, old nobleman of nature, Proud ruler of the forest aristocracy; The best of blood glows in thy every feature, And thy curled lip speaks scorn for our democracy, Thou wear'st thy titles on that godlike brow; Let him who doubts them, meet thine eagle eye, He'll quail beneath its glance, and disavow All question of thy noble family; For thou may'st here become, with strict propriety, A leader in our city good society.

LINES ON A SKULL DUG UP BY THE PLOUGH.

[ From the German of Friedrich Kind. ]

BY D. SEYMOUR.

Couldst thou not sleep upon thy mother's breast? Was't thou, ere day dawned, wakened from thy slumbers? Did earth deny to thee the quiet rest She grants to all her children's countless numbers? In narrow bed they sleep away the hours Beneath the winter's frost, the summer's flowers; No shade protects thee from the sun's fierce glow, Thy only winding-sheet the pitying snow.

How naked art thou! Pale is now that face Which once, no doubt, was blooming—deeply dinted, A gaping wound doth thy broad brow deface; Was't by the sword or careless plough imprinted? Where are the eyes whose glances once were lightning! No soul is in their hollow sockets brightening; Yet do they gaze on me, now fierce, now sad, As though I power o'er thy destiny had.

I did not from thy gloomy mansion spurn thee To gaze upon the sun that gilds these fields; But on my pilgrim staff I lift and turn thee, And try if to my spells thy silence yields; Wert thou my brother once—and did those glances Respond to love's and friendship's soft advances? Has then a spirit in this frame-work slept? Say, hast thou loved and hated, smiled and wept?

What, silent still!—wilt thou make no disclosure? Is the grave's sleep indeed so cool and still? Say, dost thou suffer from this rude exposure? Hast thou then lost all thought, emotion, will? Or has thy soul, that once within thee centered, On a new field of life and duty entered? Do flesh and spirit still in thee entwine, Dost thou still call this mouldering skull-bone thine?

Who wert thou once? what brought thee to these regions, The murderer or the murdered to be? Wert thou enrolled in mercenary legions, Or didst thou Honour's banner follow free? Didst thou desire to be enrolled in story, Didst fight for freedom, peace, truth, gold, or glory? The sword which here dropped from thy helpless hand, Was it the scourge or guardian of the land?

Even yet, for thee, beyond yon dim blue mountains, The tear may tremble in a mother's eye, And as approaching death dries up life's fountains, Thou to her thoughts and prayers may'st still be nigh; Perhaps thy orphans still for thee are crying, Perhaps thy friends for thy return are sighing, And dream not that upon this little hill The dews of night upon thy skull distil.

Or wert thou one of the accursed banditti Who wrought such outrage on fair Germany? Who made the field a desert, fired the city, Defiled the pure, and captive led the free? Didst thou, in disposition fierce and hellish, Thy span of life with deeds like these embellish? Then—God of righteousness! to thee belongs, Not unto us, to judge and right our wrongs.

The sun already toward the west is tending, His rays upon thy hollow temples strike; Thou heed'st them not; heed'st not the rains, descending On good and bad, just and unjust alike. The mild, cool breeze of even is round me playing, Sweet perfume from the woods and fields are straying; Rich grain now waves where lances bristled then; Thus do all things proclaim God's love to men.

Whoe'er thou wert, who by a fellow-mortal Were hurried out of life; we are at peace; Thus I return thee to the grave's dark portal, Revenge and hatred on this spot should cease. Rest where thy mouldering skeleton reposes, And may the perfume of the forest roses Waft thoughts of peace to every wanderer's breast! Thou restless one! return thee to thy rest.

SONG.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

I know thou dost love me—ay! frown as thou wilt, And curl that beautiful lip Which I never can gaze on without the guilt Of burning its dew to sip. I know that my heart is reflected in thine, And, like flowers that over a brook incline, They toward each other dip.

Though thou lookest so cold in these halls of light, 'Mid the careless, proud, and gay, I will steal like a thief in thy heart at night, And pilfer its thoughts away. I will come in thy dreams at the midnight hour, And thy soul in secret shall own the power It dares to mock by day.

THE MINISINK.

BY A. B. STREET.

Encircled by the screening shade, With scatter'd bush, and bough, And grassy slopes, a pleasant glade Is spread before me now; The wind that shows its forest search By the sweet fragrance of the birch Is whispering on my brow, And the mild sunshine flickers through The soft white cloud and summer blue.

Far to the North, the Delaware Flows mountain-curv'd along, By forest bank, by summit bare, It bends in rippling song; Receiving in each eddying nook The waters of the vassal brook, It sweeps more deep and strong; Round yon green island it divides, And by this quiet woodland glides.

The ground bird flutters from the grass That hides her tiny nest, The startled deer, as by I pass, Bounds in the thicket's breast; The red-bird rears his crimson wing From the long fern of yonder spring, A sweet and peaceful rest Breathes o'er the scene, where once the sound Of battle shook the gory ground.

Long will the shuddering hunter tell How once, in vengeful wrath, Red warriors raised their fiercest yell And trod their bloodiest path; How oft the sire—the babe—the wife Shriek'd vain beneath the scalping knife 'Mid havoc's fiery scathe; Until the boldest quail'd to mark, Wrapp'd round the woods, Night's mantle dark.

At length the fisher furl'd his sail Within the shelter'd creek, The hunter trod his forest trail The mustering band to seek; The settler cast his axe away, And grasp'd his rifle for the fray, All came, revenge to wreak— With the rude arms that chance supplied, And die, or conquer, side by side.

Behind the footsteps of their foe, They rush'd, a gallant throng, Burning with haste, to strike a blow For each remembered wrong; Here on this field of Minisink, Fainting they sought the river's brink Where cool waves gush'd along; No sound within the woods they heard, But murmuring wind and warbling bird.

A shriek!—'tis but the panther's—nought Breaks the calm sunshine there, A thicket stirs!—a deer has sought From sight a closer lair; Again upon the grass they droop, When burst the well-known whoop on whoop Shrill, deafening on the air, And bounding from their ambush'd gloom, Like wolves the savage warriors come.

In vain upsprung that gallant band And seized their weapons by, Fought eye to eye, and hand to hand, Alas! 'twas but to die; In vain the rifle's skilful flash Scorch'd eagle plume and wampum sash; The hatchet hiss'd on high, And down they fell in crimson heaps, Like the ripe corn the sickle reaps.

In vain they sought the covert dark, The red knife gash'd each head, Each arrow found unerring mark, Till earth was pil'd with dead. Oh! long the matron watch'd, to hear Some voice and footstep meet her ear, Till hope grew faint with dread; Long did she search the wood-paths o'er, That voice and step she heard no more.

Years have pass'd by, the merry bee Hums round the laurel flowers, The mock-bird pours her melody Amid the forest bowers; A skull is at my feet, though now The wild rose wreathes its bony brow, Relic of other hours. It bids the wandering pilgrim think Of those who died at Minisink.

MORNING MUSINGS AMONG THE HILLS.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

The morn! the morn, this mountain breeze, How pure it seems, from earth how free; What sweet and sad moralities Breathe from this air that comes to me.

Look down, my spirit! see below, Earth darkly sleeps were shades prevail, Or wakes to tears that vainly flow, Or dreams of hopes that surely fail.

Why should'st thou linger there, and burn With passions like these fools of time? Unfold thy wings, their follies spurn, And soar to yon eternal clime.

Look round, my spirit! to these hills The earliest sunlight lends its ray; Morning's pure air these far heights fills, Here evening holiest steals away.

Thus when with firm-resolving breast, Though bound to earth thou liv'st on high, Shalt thou with earlier light be blest, More purely live, more calmly die.

This darkling dawn, doth it not bring Visions of former glory back? Arouse, my spirit! plume thy wing, And soar with me on holier track.

Canst thou not with unclouded eye, And fancy-rapt, the scene survey, When darkness bade its shadows fly, And earth rose glorious into day?

Canst thou not see that earth, its Spring Unfaded yet by death or crime, In freshest green, yet mellowing Into the gorgeous Autumn's prime?

Dost thou not see the eternal choir Light on each peak that wooes the sky, Fold their broad wings of golden fire, And string their seraph minstrelsy?

Then what sublimest music filled Rejoicing heaven and rising earth, When angel harps the chorus swelled, And stars hymned forth creation's birth.

See how the sun comes proudly on His glorious march! before our sight The swathing mists, their errand done, Are melting into morning light.

He tips the peak, its dark clouds fly, He walks its sides, and shades retreat; He pours his flood of radiancy On streams and lowlands at its feet.

Lord! let thy rays thus pierce, illume Each dim recess within my heart; From its deep darkness chase all gloom, And to its weakness strength impart.

Thus let thy light upon me rise, Here let my home for ever be; Far above earth, its toys and ties, Yet humbly kneeling, Lord, to thee!

SONG.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Ob: 1820, Æt. 25.

Nay, think not, dear Lais, I feel a regret That another awakened thy sigh, Or repine that some traces remain of it yet In the beam of that eloquent eye.

Though the light of its smile on a rival had shone Ere it taught me the way to adore, Shall I scorn the bright gem now I know it my own, Because it was polished before?

And though oft the rich sweets of that lip hath been won, It but fits it the better for bliss; As fruit, when caressed by the bright glowing sun, Grows ripe from the warmth of his kiss.

THE DEAD OF 1832.

BY R. C. SANDS.

Ob: 1832, Æt. 33.

Oh Time and Death! with certain pace, Though still unequal, hurrying on, O'erturning, in your awful race, The cot, the palace, and the throne!

Not always in the storm of war, Nor by the pestilence that sweeps From the plague-smitten realms afar, Beyond the old and solemn deeps:

In crowds the good and mighty go, And to those vast dim chambers hie:— Where, mingled with the high and low, Dead CÆsars and dead Shakspeares lie!

Dread Ministers of God! sometimes Ye smite at once, to do His will, In all earth's ocean-sever'd climes, Those—whose renown ye cannot kill!

When all the brightest stars that burn At once are banished from their spheres, Men sadly ask, when shall return Such lustre to the coming years?

For where is he [A]—who lived so long— Who raised the modern Titan's ghost, And showed his fate, in powerful song, Whose soul for learning's sake was lost?

Where he—who backwards to the birth Of Time itself, adventurous trod, And in the mingled mass of earth Found out the handiwork of God? [B]

Where he—who in the mortal head, [C] Ordained to gaze on heaven, could trace The soul's vast features, that shall tread The stars, when earth is nothingness?

Where he—who struck old Albyn's lyre, [D] Till round the world its echoes roll, And swept, with all a prophet's fire, The diapason of the soul?

Where he—who read the mystic lore, [E] Buried, where buried Pharaohs sleep; And dared presumptuous to explore Secrets four thousand years could keep?

Where he—who with a poet's eye [F] Of truth, on lowly nature gazed, And made even sordid Poverty Classic, when in his numbers glazed?

Where—that old sage so hale and staid, [G] The "greatest good" who sought to find; Who in his garden mused, and made All forms of rule, for all mankind?

And thou—whom millions far removed [H] Revered—the hierarch meek and wise, Thy ashes sleep, adored, beloved, Near where thy Wesley's coffin lies.

He too—the heir of glory—where [I] Hath great Napoleon's scion fled? Ah! glory goes not to an heir! Take him, ye noble, vulgar dead!

But hark! a nation sighs! for he, [J] Last of the brave who perilled all To make an infant empire free, Obeys the inevitable call!

They go—and with them is a crowd, For human rights who thought and did, We rear to them no temples proud, Each hath his mental pyramid.

All earth is now their sepulchre, The mind, their monument sublime— Young in eternal fame they are— Such are your triumphs, Death and Time.

TO A LADY

WHO DECLARED THAT THE SUN PREVENTED HER FROM SLEEPING.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Why blame old Sol, who, all on fire, Prints on your lip the burning kiss; Why should he not your charms admire, And dip his beam each morn in bliss?

Were't mine to guide o'er paths of light The beam-haired coursers of the sky, I'd stay their course the livelong night To gaze upon thy sleeping eye.

Then let the dotard fondly spring, Each rising day, to snatch the prize; 'Twill add new vigour to his wing, And speed his journey through the skies.

ADDRESS TO A MUSQUITO.

BY EDWARD SANFORD.

His voice was ever soft, gentle, and low.—King Lear.

Thou sweet musician, that around my bed Dost nightly come and wind thy little horn, By what unseen and secret influence led, Feed'st thou my ear with music till 'tis morn? The wind harp's tones are not more soft than thine, The hum of falling waters not more sweet, I own, indeed, I own thy song divine. And when next year's warm summer nights we meet, (Till then, farewell!) I promise thee to be A patient listener to thy minstrelsy.

Thou tiny minstrel, who bid thee discourse Such eloquent music? was't thy tuneful sire? Some old musician? or did'st take a course Of lessons from some master of the lyre? Who bid thee twang so sweetly thy small trump? Did Norton form thy notes so clear and full? Art a phrenologist, and is the bump Of song developed on thy little skull? At Niblo's hast thou been when crowds stood mute Drinking the birdlike tones of Cuddy's flute?

Tell me the burden of thy ceaseless song, Is it thy evening hymn of grateful prayer, Or lay of love, thou pipest through the long Still night? With song dost drive away dull care? Art thou a vieux garÇon, a gay deceiver, A wandering blade, roaming in search of sweets, Pledging thy faith to every fond believer, Who thy advance with half-way shyness meets? Or art o' the softer sex, and sing'st in glee, "In maiden meditation, fancy free?"

Thou little Syren, when the nymphs of yore Charmed with their songs till men forgot to dine, And starved, though music-fed, upon their shore, Their voices breathed no softer lays than thine, They sang but to entice, and thou dost sing As if to lull our senses to repose, That thou may'st use, unharmed, thy little sting The very moment we begin to doze; Thou worse than Syren, thirsty, fierce blood-sipper, Thou living Vampyre, and thou Gallinipper!

Nature is full of music, sweetly sings The bard, (and thou dost sing most sweetly too,) Through the wide circuit of created things, Thou art the living proof the bard sings true. Nature is full of thee; on every shore, 'Neath the hot sky of Congo's dusky child, From warm Peru to icy Labrador, The world's free citizen thou roamest wild. Wherever "mountains rise or oceans roll," Thy voice is heard, from "Indus to the Pole."

The incarnation of Queen Mab art thou, "The Fairies' midwife;"—thou dost nightly sip, With amorous proboscis bending low, The honey dew from many a lady's lip— (Though that they "straight on kisses dream," I doubt) On smiling faces, and on eyes that weep, Thou lightest, and oft with "sympathetic snout" "Ticklest men's noses as they lie asleep;" And sometimes dwellest, if I rightly scan, "On the fore-finger of an alderman."

Yet thou can'st glory in a noble birth. As rose the sea-born Venus from the wave, So didst thou rise to life; the teeming earth, The living water, and the fresh air gave A portion of their elements to create Thy little form, though beauty dwells not there. So lean and gaunt, that economic fate Meant thee to feed on music or on air. Our vein's pure juices were not made for thee, Thou living, singing, stinging atomy.

The hues of dying sunset are most fair, And twilight's tints just fading into night, Most dusky soft, and so thy soft notes are By far the sweetest when thou tak'st thy flight. The swan's last note is sweetest, so is thine; Sweet are the wind harp's tones at distance heard; 'Tis sweet in distance at the day's decline, To hear the opening song of evening's bird. But notes of harp or bird at distance float Less sweetly on the ear than thy last note.

The autumn winds are wailing: 'tis thy dirge; Its leaves are sear, prophetic of thy doom. Soon the cold rain will whelm thee, as the surge Whelms the tost mariner in its watery tomb, Then soar, and sing thy little life away! Albeit thy voice is somewhat husky now. 'Tis well to end in music life's last day, Of one so gleeful and so blithe as thou: For thou wilt soon live through its joyous hours, And pass away with Autumn's dying flowers.

INCONSTANCY.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Yes! I swore to be true, I allow, And I meant it, but, some how or other, The seal of that amorous vow Was pressed on the lips of another.

Yet I did but as all would have done, For where is the being, dear cousin, Content with the beauties of one When he might have the range of a dozen?

Young Love is a changeable boy, And the gem of the sea-rock is like him, For he gives back the beams of his joy To each sunny eye that may strike him.

From a kiss of a zephyr and rose Love sprang in an exquisite hour, And fleeting and sweet, heaven knows, Is this child of a sigh and a flower.

THE CALLICOON IN AUTUMN.

BY A. B. STREET.

Far in the forest's heart, unknown, Except to sun and breeze, Where solitude her dreaming throne Has held for centuries; Chronicled by the rings and moss That tell the flight of years across The seamed and columned trees, This lovely streamlet glides along With tribute of eternal song!

Now, stealing through its thickets deep In which the wood-duck hides, Now, picturing in its basin sleep Its green pool-hollowed sides, Here, through the pebbles slow it creeps, There, 'mid some wild abyss it sweeps, And foaming, hoarsely chides; Then slides so still, its gentle swell Scarce ripples round the lily's bell.

Nature, in her autumnal dress Magnificent and gay, Displays her mantled gorgeousness To hide the near decay, Which, borne on Winter's courier breath, Warns the old year prepare for death, When, tottering, seared, and gray, Ice-fettered, it will sink below The choking winding-sheet of snow.

A blaze of splendour is around, As wondrous and as bright As that, within the fairy ground, Which met Aladdin's sight. The sky, a sheet of silvery sheen With breaks of tenderest blue between, As though the summer light Was melting through, once more to cast A glance of gladness ere it passed.

The south-west airs of ladened balm Come breathing sweetly by, And wake amid the forest's calm One quick and shivering sigh, Shaking, but dimpling not the glass Of this smooth streamlet, as they pass— They scarcely wheel on high The thistle's downy, silver star, To waft its pendent seed afar.

Dream-like the silence, only woke By the grasshopper's glee, And now and then the lazy stroke Of woodcock [K] on the tree: And mingling with the insect hum, The beatings of the partridge drum, With frequently a bee Darting its music, and the crow Harsh cawing from the swamp below.

A foliage world of glittering dyes Gleams brightly on the air, As though a thousand sunset skies, With rainbows, blended there; Each leaf an opal, and each tree A bower of varied brilliancy, And all one general glare Of glory, that o'erwhelms the sight With dazzling and unequalled light.

Rich gold with gorgeous crimson, here The birch and maple twine, The beech its orange mingles near With emerald of the pine; And e'en the humble bush and herb Are glowing with those tints superb, As though a scattered mine Of gems, upon the earth were strewn, Flashing with radiance, each its own.

All steeped in that delicious charm Peculiar to our land, Glimmering in mist, rich, purple, warm, When Indian Summer's hand Has filled the valley with its smoke, And wrapped the mountain in its cloak, While, timidly and bland, The sunbeams struggle from the sky, And in long lines of silver lie.

The squirrel chatters merrily, The nut falls ripe and brown, And gem-like from the jewelled tree The leaf comes fluttering down; And restless in his plumage gay, From bush to bush loud screams the jay, While on the hemlock's crown The sentry pigeon guards from foes The flock that dots the neighbouring boughs.

See! on this edge of forest lawn, Where sleeps the clouded beam, A doe has led her spotted fawn To gambol by the stream; Beside yon mullein's braided stalk They hear the gurgling voices talk, While, like a wandering gleam, The yellow-bird dives here and there, A feathered vessel of the air.

On, through the rampart walls of rock The waters pitch in white, And high, in mist, the cedars lock Their boughs, half lost to sight Above the whirling gulf—the dash Of frenzied floods, that vainly lash Their limits in their flight, Whose roar the eagle, from his peak, Responds to with his angriest shriek.

Stream of the age-worn forest! here The Indian, free as thou, Has bent against thy depths his spear, And in thy woods his bow; The beaver built his dome; but they, The memories of an earlier day, Like those dead trunks, that show What once were mighty pines—have fled With Time's unceasing, rapid tread.

THE WESTERN HUNTER TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

[Written in Scotland to Fitz-Greene Halleck, Esq.]

BY J. R. DRAKE.

Weel, Fitz, I'm here; the mair's the pity, I'll wad ye curse the vera city From which I write a braid Scots ditty Afore I learn it; But gif ye canna mak it suit ye, Ye ken ye'll burn it.

My grunzie's got a twist until it Thae damn'd Scotch aighs sae stuff and fill it I doubt, wi' a' my doctor skill, it 'll keep the gait, Not e'en my pen can scratch a billet And write it straight.

Ye're aiblins thinking to forgather Wi' a hale sheet, of muir and heather O' burns, and braes, and sic like blether, To you a feast; But stop! ye will not light on either This time at least.

Noo stir your bries a wee and ferlie, Then drap your lip and glower surly; Troth! gif ye do, I'll tell ye fairly, Ye'll no be right; We've made our jaunt a bit too early For sic a sight.

What it may be when summer deeds Muir shaw and brae, wi' bonnie weeds Sprinkling the gowan on the meads And broomy knowes, I dinna ken; but now the meads Scarce keep the cows.

For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted, A few bit pines and larches planted, And thae, wee, knurlie, blastic, stuntit As e'er thou sawest; Row but a sma' turf fence anent it, Hech! there's a forest.

For streams, ye'll find a puny puddle That would na float a shull bairn's coble, A cripple stool might near hand hobble Dry-baughted ever; Some whinstone crags to mak' it bubble, And there's a river.

And then their cauld and reekie skies, They luke ower dull to Yankee eyes; The sun ye'd ken na if he's rise Amaist the day; Just a noon blink that hardly dries The dewy brae.

Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women, Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman, For luver's heart or blade of foeman O'er baith victorious; E'en common sense, that plant uncommon, Grows bright and glorious.

Fecks but my pen has skelp'd alang, I've whistled out an unco sang 'Bout folk I ha' na been amang Twa days as yet; But, faith, the farther that I gang The mair ye'll get.

Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soon I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon, See Mungo's well, and set my shoon Where i' the dark Bauld Tammie keek'd, the drunken loon, At cutty sark.

And I shall tread the hallowed bourne Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn. What Yankee bluid But feels its free pulse leap and burn Where Wallace stood!

But pouk my pen! I find I'm droppin My braw Scots style to English loppin; I fear amaist that ye'll be hoppin I'd quit it quite: If so, I e'en must think o' stopping, And sae, gude night.

WEEHAWKEN.

BY R. C. SANDS.

Eve o'er our path is stealing fast; Yon quivering splendours are the last The sun will fling, to tremble o'er The waves that kiss the opposing shore; His latest glories fringe the height Behind us, with their golden light.

The mountain's mirror'd outline fades Amid the fast extending shades; Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride, Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide; For the great stream a bulwark meet That laves its rock-encumbered feet.

River and Mountain! though to song Not yet, perchance, your names belong; Those who have loved your evening hues Will ask not the recording Muse, What antique tales she can relate, Your banks and steeps to consecrate.

Yet should the stranger ask, what lore Of by-gone days, this winding shore, Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell, If vocal made by Fancy's spell,— The varying legend might rehearse Fit themes for high, romantic verse.

O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod; Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark The progress of the glancing bark. Spoils, strangely won on distant waves, Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.

When the great strife for Freedom rose Here scouted oft her friends and foes, Alternate, through the changeful war, And beacon-fires flashed bright and far; And here, when Freedom's strife was won, Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;—

Her son,—the second of the band, The Romans of the rescued land. Where round yon cape the banks ascend, Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend; There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh, There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.

There last he stood. Before his sight Flowed the fair river, free and bright; The rising Mart, and Isles, and Bay, Before him in their glory lay,— Scenes of his love and of his fame,— The instant ere the death-shot came.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE.

BY T. W. TUCKER.

Thou fragile thing That with a breath I could destroy, What mighty train of care and joy Do ye not bring?

Emblem of power! By thee comes public bane or good; The wheels of state, without thee, would Stop in an hour.

Tower, dome, and arch, Thou spreadest o'er the desert waste, Thou guid'st the path of war, and stay'st The army's march.

The spreading seas For thee unnumbered squadrons bear, Ruler of earth, and sea, and air— When bended knees

Are bowed in prayer, Although to heaven is given each word, Thy influence in the heart, unheard, Is upmost there!

Fly! minion, fly! Thine errand is unfinished yet— The boon I covet,—to forget! Thou canst not buy.

THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET

Our Western land can boast no lovelier spot. The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand, Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist, Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below The silent river, with majestic sweep, Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy face Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. Talk ye of solitude?—It is not here. Nor silence.—Low, deep murmurs are abroad. Those towering hills hold converse with the sky That smiles upon their summits;—and the wind Which stirs their wooded sides, whispers of life, And bears the burthen sweet from leaf to leaf, Bidding the stately forest boughs look bright, And nod to greet his coming!—And the brook, That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down From the hill-side, has, too, a tale to tell; The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;— And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path, Send forth their perfume as an added gift. The river utters, too, a solemn voice, And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, When not a sound was heard along his shores, Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek Of some expiring captive,—and no bark E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves Are vocal often with the hunter's song;— Now visit, in their glad and onward course, The abodes of happy men—gardens and fields— And cultured plains—still bearing, as they pass, Fertility renewed and fresh delights.

The time has been,—so Indian legends say,— When here the mighty Delaware poured not His ancient waters through—but turned aside Through yonder dell, and washed those shaded vales. Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill, Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed The wealth of summer on its graceful slope. Thither the hunter chieftains oft repaired To light their council fires,—while its dim height, For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared— 'Tis said—to scale; save one white-haired old man, Who there held commune with the Indian's God, And thence brought down to men his high commands. Years passed away—the gifted seer had lived Beyond life's natural term, and bent no more His weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit. New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien, Who strove against each other. Blood and death Filled those green shades, where all before was peace, And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive E'en on the precincts of that holy spot Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mourned The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest Again to seek the consecrated height, Succour from heaven, and mercy to implore.— They watched him from afar. He laboured slowly High up the steep ascent—and vanished soon Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark As the last hues of sunset passed away. The night fell heavily—and soon were heard Low tones of thunder from the mountain top, Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills In deep and solemn peal,—while lurid flashes Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom. Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crash Burst on the startled ear;—the earth, convulsed, Groaned from its solid centre—forests shook For leagues around,—and by the sudden gleam Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot, A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent From top to base—and where so late had smiled Green boughs and blossoms—yawned a frightful chasm, Filled with unnatural darkness.—From afar The distant roar of waters then was heard; They came—with gathering sweep—o'erwhelming all That checked their headlong course;—the rich maize field,— The low-roofed hut—its sleeping inmates—all— Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin. Morn looked upon the desolated scene Of the Great Spirit's anger—and beheld Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks:— And men looked on in silence and in fear, And far removed their dwellings from the spot, Where now no more the hunter chased his prey, Or the war-whoop was heard.—Thus years went on: Each trace of desolation vanished fast; Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread With fresh green foliage, and the swelling earth Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides. The river passed majestically on Through his new channel—verdure graced his banks;— The wild bird murmured sweetly as before In its beloved woods,—and nought remained,— Save the wild tales which chieftains told,— To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.

SONG OF THE HERMIT TROUT.

BY W. P. HAWES.

Down in the deep Dark holes I keep, And there in the noontide I float and sleep, By the hemlock log, And the springing bog, And the arching alders, I lie incog.

The angler's fly Comes dancing by, But never a moment it cheats my eye; For the hermit trout Is not such a lout As to be by a wading boy pulled out.

King of the brook, No fisher's hook Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook; But here I lie, And laugh as they try; Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!

But when the streams, With moonlight beams, Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams, Then, then look out For the hermit trout; For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams.

TO MAY.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

Come, gentle May! Come with thy robe of flowers, Come with thy sun and sky, thy clouds and showers; Come, and bring forth unto the eye of day, From their imprisoning and mysterious night, The buds of many hues, the children of thy light.

Come, wondrous May! For at the bidding of thy magic wand, Quick from the caverns of the breathing land, In all their green and glorious array They spring, as spring the Persian maids to hail Thy flushing footsteps in Cashmerian vale.

Come, vocal May! Come with thy train, that high On some fresh branch pour out their melody; Or carolling thy praise the live-long day, Sit perched in some lone glen, on echo calling, 'Mid murmuring woods and musical waters falling.

Come, sunny May! Come with thy laughing beam, What time the lazy mist melts on the stream, Or seeks the mountain-top to meet thy ray, Ere yet the dew-drop on thine own soft flower Hath lost its light, or died beneath his power.

Come, holy May! When sunk behind the cold and western hill, His light hath ceased to play on leaf and rill, And twilight's footsteps hasten his decay; Come with thy musings, and my heart shall be Like a pure temple consecrate to thee.

Come, beautiful May! Like youth and loveliness, Like her I love; Oh, come in thy full dress, The drapery of dark winter cast away; To the bright eye and the glad heart appear, Queen of the Spring and mistress of the year.

Yet, lovely May! Teach her whose eye shall rest upon this rhyme To spurn the gilded mockeries of time, The heartless pomp that beckons to betray, And keep, as thou wilt find, that heart each year, Pure as thy dawn, and as thy sunset clear.

And let me too, sweet May! Let thy fond votary see, As fade thy beauties, all the vanity Of this world's pomp; then teach, that though decay In his short winter, bury beauty's frame, In fairer worlds the soul shall break his sway, Another Spring shall bloom eternal and the same.

TO THE WHIP-POOR-WILL

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Bird of the lone and joyless night— Whence is thy sad and solemn lay? Attendant on the pale moon's light, Why shun the garish blaze of day?

When darkness fills the dewy air, Nor sounds the song of happier bird, Alone amid the silence there Thy wild and plaintive note is heard.

Thyself unseen—thy pensive moan Poured in no loving comrade's ear— The forest's shaded depths alone That mournful melody can hear.

Beside what still and secret spring, In what dark wood, the livelong day, Sit'st thou with dusk and folded wing, To while the hours of light away.

Sad minstrel! thou hast learned like me, That life's deceitful gleam is vain; And well the lesson profits thee, Who will not trust its charms again!

Thou, unbeguiled, thy plaint dost trill, To listening night when mirth is o'er: I, heedless of the warning, still Believe, to be deceived once more!

CHANSONETTE.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

They are mockery all, those skies! those skies! Their untroubled depths of blue; They are mockery all, these eyes! these eyes! Which seem so warm and true; Each quiet star in the one that lies, Each meteor glance that at random flies The other's lashes through. They are mockery all, these flowers of Spring, Which her airs so softly woo; And the love to which we would madly cling, Ay! it is mockery too. For the winds are false which the perfume stir, And the lips deceive to which we sue, And love but leads to the sepulchre; Which flowers spring to strew.

THE CLOUDS.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

The clouds have their own language unto me They have told many a tale in by-gone days, At twilight's hour, when gentle reverie Steals o'er the heart, as tread the elfish fays With their fleet footsteps on the moonlit grass, And leave their storied circles where they pass.

So, even so, to me the embracing clouds, With their pure thoughts leave holy traces here; And from the tempest-gathered fold that shrouds The darkening earth, unto the blue, and clear, And sunny brightness of yon arching sky, They have their language and their melody.

Have you not felt it when the dropping rain From the soft showers of Spring hath clothed the earth With its unnumbered offspring? felt not when The conquering sun hath proudly struggled forth In misty radiance, until cloud and spot Were blended in one brightness? Can you not

Look out and love when the departing sun Enrobes their peaks in shapes fantastical In his last splendour, and reflects upon Their skirts his farewell smile ere shadows fall Above his burial, like our boyhood's gleams Of fading light, or like the "stuff of dreams?"

Or giving back those tints indefinite, Yet brightly blending, there to form that arch Whereon the angel-spirits of the light Marshalled their joyous and triumphant march, When sank the whelming waters, and again Left the green islands to the sons of men?

Oh, then as rose each lofty pile, and threw Its growing shadow on the sinking tide, How glowed each peak with the resplendent hue, As its new lustre told that wrath had died, Till the blue waves within their limits curled, And that broad bow in beauty spanned the world.

Gaze yet again, and you may see on high The opposing hosts that mutter as they form Their stern battalions, ere the artillery Bids the destroying angel guide its storm; If you have heard on battle's eve the low Defiance quickly uttered to the foe,

When the firm ranks gaze fiercely brow on brow And eye on eye, while every heart beats fast With hopes and fears, all feel, but none avow, Pulsations which perchance may be their last, Whom the unhonoured sepulchre shall shroud; If you have seen this, gaze upon that cloud.

How from the bosom of its blackness springs The cleaving lightning kindling on its way, Flinging such blinding glory from its wings, That he who looks grows drunk with its array Of power and beauty, till his eye is dim, And dazzling darkness overshadows him.

Oh, God! can he conceive who hath not known The wondrous workings of thy firmament, Thine untold majesty, around whose throne They stand, thy winged messengers, or sent In light or darkness on their destined path, Bestow thy blessings or direct thy wrath.

Then here, in this thy lower temple, here We kneel to thee in worship; what to these Symbols of thine, wherein thou dost appear Are painted domes or priestly palaces; On this green turf, and gazing on yon sphere, We call on thee to commune and to bless, And see in holy fancy each pure sigh Ascend like incense to thy throne on high.

THE ISLE OF REST.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Some of the islands where the fancied paradise of the Indians was situated, were believed to be in Lake Superior.

That blessed isle lies far away— 'Tis many a weary league from land, Where billows in their golden play Dash on its sparkling sand. No tempest's wrath, or stormy waters' roar, Disturb the echoes of that peaceful shore.

There the light breezes lie at rest, Soft pillowed on the glassy deep; Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast, And watch their silent sleep. There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wing Sits lone and still beside the bubbling spring.

And far within, in murmurs heard, Comes, with the wind's low whispers there, The music of the mounting bird, Skimming the clear bright air. The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide, Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side.

The sun there sheds his noontide beam On oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers; And gaily by the shaded stream Spring forth the forest flowers. The fountain flings aloft its showery spray, With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day.

And when the dewy morning breaks, A thousand tones of rapture swell; A thrill of life and motion wakes Through hill, and plain, and dell. The wild bird trills his song—and from the wood The red deer bounds to drink beside the flood.

There, when the sun sets on the sea, And gilds the forest's waving crown, Strains of immortal harmony To those sweet shades come down. Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng, And pour in evening's ear their charmed song.

E'en on this cold and cheerless shore, While all is dark and quiet near, The huntsman, when his toils are o'er, That melody may hear. And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam, The glories of that isle, his future home.

INDIAN SUMMER—1828.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river; The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne, As high in air she carols, faintly quiver; The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving; Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver; The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.

I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere The blasts of Winter chase the varied dyes That gaily deck the slow-declining year; I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf, Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief; I love the note of each wild bird that flies, As on the wind she pours her parting lay, And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.

Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;— Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be, Toward thee I still the same devotion bear; To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restore— I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer I bowed my head upon a mother's knee, And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.

GREECE—1832.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Land of the brave! where lie inurned The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burned, And blazed upon the battle's fray: Land, where the gallant Spartan few Bled at ThermopylÆ of yore, When death his purple garment threw On Helle's consecrated shore!

Land of the Muse! within thy bowers Her soul entrancing echoes rung, While on their course the rapid hours Paused at the melody she sung— Till every grove and every hill, And every stream that flowed along, From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song.

Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Shall glory gild thy clime no more? Her banner float above thy waves Where proudly it hath swept before? Hath not remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm, And strike for freedom once again?

No! coward souls! the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, The light which beamed on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play; And thou art but a shadow now, With helmet shattered—spear in rust— Thy honour but a dream—and thou Despised—degraded in the dust!

Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dashed down to earth the Persian plume, When the loud chant of triumph told How fatal was the despot's doom?— The bold three hundred—where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay, Where death has hushed them into rest.

Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill A glory shines of ages fled; And fame her light is pouring still, Not on the living, but the dead! But 'tis the dim sepulchral light, Which sheds a faint and feeble ray, As moon-beams on the brow of night, When tempests sweep upon their way.

Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance, Behold thy banner waves afar; Behold the glittering weapons glance Along the gleaming front of war! A gallant chief, of high emprize, Is urging foremost in the field, Who calls upon thee to arise In might—in majesty revealed.

In vain, in vain the hero calls— In vain he sounds the trumpet loud! His banner totters—see! it falls In ruin, Freedom's battle shroud: Thy children have no soul to dare Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment, and expires.

Lost land! where Genius made his reign, And reared his golden arch on high; Where Science raised her sacred fane, Its summits peering to the sky; Upon thy clime the midnight deep Of ignorance hath brooded long, And in the tomb, forgotten, sleep The sons of science and of song.

Thy sun hath set—the evening storm Hath passed in giant fury by, To blast the beauty of thy form, And spread its pall upon the sky! Gone is thy glory's diadem, And freedom never more shall cease To pour her mournful requiem O'er blighted, lost, degraded Greece!

IMPROMPTU TO A LADY BLUSHING.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

The lilies faintly to the roses yield, As on thy lovely cheek they struggling vie, (Who would not strive upon so sweet a field To win the mastery?) And thoughts are in thy speaking eyes revealed, Pure as the fount the prophet's rod unsealed.

I could not wish that in thy bosom aught Should e'er one moment's transient pain awaken, Yet can't regret that thou—forgive the thought— As flowers when shaken Will yield their sweetest fragrance to the wind, Should, ruffled thus, betray thy heavenly mind.

A ROMAN CHARIOT RACE.

BY J. I. BAILEY.

Hast thou no soul, that thou canst be unmoved At glorious sports like these? Even now I see Come forth the noble charioteers, arrayed In red, white, green, and azure, like the sky, The eye of beauty dazzled by their hue! And now with eager hopes and proud desires Exulting, lo! the youthful, daring band Start to the race, and fiercely seize the reins! Onward they rush; a thousand voices hail The alternate victor as he speeds along; Ten thousand eyes pursue the chariot flight, And as they gaze, as many thousand souls Swell in their bosoms and almost leap out. Then comes the glorious moment when the goal Is almost reached—they goad the foremost steeds Lashing with all their might upon their flanks; The golden chariot glitters in the course, And swifter than the wind is borne along— And now the victor, like a flash of light, Bursts on the view, and hails the loud acclaim, While lengthening shouts of triumph rend the air! Waldimar, a Tragedy. Act II., Scene I.

LINES FOR MUSIC.

BY G. P. MORRIS.

O would that she were here, These hills and dales among, Where vocal groves are gayly mocked By echo's airy tongue,— Where jocund Nature smiles In all her gay attire, Amid deep-tangled wiles Of hawthorn and sweet-brier. O would that she were here, That fair and gentle thing, Whose words are musical as strains Breathed by the wind-harp's string.

O would that she were here, Where the free waters leap, Shouting in their joyousness, Adown the rocky steep,— Where rosy Zephyr lingers All the livelong day, With health upon his pinions, And gladness in his way. O would that she were here, Sure Eden's garden-plot Did not embrace more varied charms Than this romantic spot.

O would that she were here, Where frolic by the hours, Rife with the song of bee and bird, The perfume of the flowers,— Where beams of peace and love, And radiant beauty's glow, Are pictured in the sky above, And in the lake below. O would that she were here— The nymphs of this bright scene, With song, and dance, and revelry, Would crown Bianca queen.

WHITE LAKE. [L]

BY A. B. STREET.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Where dost thou loiter, Spring, While it behoveth Thee to cease wandering Where'er thou roveth, And to my lady bring The flowers she loveth.

Come with thy melting skies Like her cheek blushing, Come with thy dewy eyes Where founts are gushing; Come where the wild bee hies When dawn is flushing.

Lead her where by the brook The first blossom keepeth, Where, in the sheltered nook, The callow bud sleepeth; Or with a timid look Through its leaves peepeth.

Lead her where on the spray, Blithely carolling, First birds their roundelay For my lady sing— But keep, where'er she stray True-love blossoming.

THE SHIPWRECK OF CAMOENS.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

Clouds gathered o'er the dark blue sky, The sun waxed dim and pale, And the music of the waves was changed To the plaintive voice of wail; And fearfully the lightning flashed Around the ship's tall mast, While mournfully through the creaking shrouds Came the sighing of the blast.

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank Before the deepening gloom; For they gazed on the black and boiling sea As 'twere a yawning tomb; But on the vessel's deck stood one With proud and changeless brow; Nor pain, nor terror was in the look He turned to the gulf below.

And calmly to his arm he bound His casket and his sword; Unheeding, though with fiercer strength The threatening tempest roared; Then stretched his sinewy arms and cried: "For me there yet is hope, The limbs that have spurned a tyrant's chain With the stormy wave may cope.

"Now let the strife of nature rage, Proudly I yet can claim, Where'er the waters may bear me on, My freedom and my fame." The dreaded moment came too soon, The sea swept madly on, Till the wall of waters closed around, And the noble ship was gone.

Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry; The swimmer's bubbling breath Was all unheard, while the raging tide Wrought well the task of death; But 'mid the billows still was seen The stranger's struggling form; And the meteor flash of his sword might seem Like a beacon 'mid the storm.

For still, while with his strong right arm He buffeted the wave, The other upheld that treasured prize He would give life to save. Was then the love of pelf so strong That e'en in death's dark hour, The base-born passion could awake With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him, Compared with what lay hid, Through lonely years of changeless woe, Beneath that casket's lid; For there was all the mind's rich wealth, And many a precious gem That, in after years, he hoped might form A poet's diadem.

Nobly he struggled till, o'erspent, His nerveless limbs no more Could bear him on through the waves that rose Like barriers to the shore; Yet still he held his long prized wealth, He saw the wished-for land— A moment more, and he was thrown Upon the rocky strand.

Alas! far better to have died Where the mighty billows roll, Than lived till coldness and neglect Bowed down his haughty soul: Such was his dreary lot, at once His country's pride and shame; For on Camoen's humble grave alone Was placed his wreath of fame.

LOVE AND FAITH; A BALLAD.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

'Twas on one morn, in spring-time weather, A rosy, warm, inviting hour, That Love and Faith went out together, And took the path to Beauty's bower. Love laughed and frolicked all the way, While sober Faith, as on they rambled, Allowed the thoughtless boy to play, But watched him, wheresoe'er he gamboled.

So warm a welcome, Beauty smiled Upon the guests whom chance had sent her, That Love and Faith were both beguiled The grotto of the nymph to enter; And when the curtains of the skies The drowsy hand of Night was closing, Love nestled him in Beauty's eyes, While Faith was on her heart reposing.

Love thought he never saw a pair So softly radiant in their beaming; Faith deemed that he could meet no where So sweet and safe a place to dream in; And there, for life in bright content, Enchained, they must have still been lying, For Love his wings to Faith had lent, And Faith he never dream'd of flying.

But Beauty, though she liked the child, With all his winning ways about him, Upon his mentor never smiled, And thought that Love might do without him; Poor Faith abused, soon sighing fled, And now one knows not where to find him; While mourning Love quick followed Upon the wings he left behind him.

'Tis said, that in his wandering Love still around that spot will hover, Like bird that on bewildered wing Her parted mate pines to discover; And true it is that Beauty's door Is often by the idler haunted; But, since Faith fled, Love owns no more The spell that held his wings enchanted.

THE LAST SONG.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Strike the wild harp yet once again! Again its lonely numbers pour; Then let the melancholy strain Be hushed in death for evermore. For evermore, for evermore, Creative fancy, be thou still; And let oblivious Lethe pour Upon my lyre its waters chill.

Strike the wild harp yet once again! Then be its fitful chords unstrung, Silent as is the grave's domain, And mute as the death-mouldered tongue, Let not a thought of memory dwell One moment on its former song; Forgotten, too, be this farewell, Which plays its pensive strings along!

Strike the wild harp yet once again! The saddest and the latest lay; Then break at once its strings in twain, And they shall sound no more for aye: And hang it on the cypress tree, The hours of youth and song have passed, Have gone, with all their witchery; Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.

TO MY WIFE.

BY LINDLEY MURRAY.

When on thy bosom I recline, Enraptur'd still to call thee mine, To call thee mine for life, I glory in the sacred ties, Which modern wits and fools despise, Of Husband and of Wife.

One mutual flame inspires our bliss; The tender look, the melting kiss, Even years have not destroyed; Some sweet sensation, ever new, Springs up and proves the maxim true, That love can ne'er be cloy'd.

Have I a wish?—'tis all for thee, Hast thou a wish?—'tis all for me, So soft our moments move, That angels look with ardent gaze, Well pleas'd to see our happy days, And bid us live—and love.

If cares arise—and cares will come— Thy bosom is my softest home, I'll lull me there to rest; And is there aught disturbs my fair? I'll bid her sigh out every care, And lose it in my breast.

Have I a wish?—'tis all her own; All hers and mine are roll'd in one— Our hearts are so entwined, That, like the ivy round the tree, Bound up in closest amity, 'Tis death to be disjoined.

LAMENT.

BY MARY E. BROOKS.

Oh, weep not for the dead! Rather, oh rather give the tear To those that darkly linger here, When all besides are fled; Weep for the spirit withering In its cold cheerless sorrowing, Weep for the young and lovely one That ruin darkly revels on; But never be a tear-drop shed For them, the pure enfranchised dead.

Oh, weep not for the dead! No more for them the blighting chill, The thousand shades of earthly ill, The thousand thorns we tread; Weep for the life-charm early flown, The spirit broken, bleeding, lone; Weep for the death pangs of the heart, Ere being from the bosom part; But never be a tear-drop given To those that rest in yon blue heaven.

"AFFECTION WINS AFFECTION."

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

Mine own beloved, believest thou ought of this? Oh! then no more My heart, o'er early faded dreams of bliss Its wail shall pour.

Give me this hope, though only from afar It sheds its light, And, like yon dewy melancholy star, With tears is bright—

Let me but hope a heart with fondness fraught, That could not sin Against its worshipped idol, e'en in thought, Thy love may win:

Let me but hope the changeless love of years, The tender care That fain would die to save thine eye from tears, Thy heart may share.

Or let me hope at least that, when no more My voice shall meet The ear that listens only to think o'er Tones far more sweet;

When the kind shelter of the grave shall hide This faded brow, This form once gazed upon with pride, With coldness now;

When never more my weary steps of pain Around thee move, When loosed for ever is life's heavy chain, Love will win love.

FEATS OF DEATH.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

Ob: 1825, Æt. 17.

I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad light; I have paused o'er the bower where the infant lay sleeping, And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping.

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night, Which withers and moulders the flower in its light, Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow, And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low; I culled the fair bud as it danced in its mirth, And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth.

I passed o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high; The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight, And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night.

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth, But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave, I stop not to pity—I stay not to save.

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there; It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair! The deep purple fountain seemed melting away, And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play; She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me, I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free.

The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song; The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love, And sweet, and half sad were the numbers he wove. I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly hung; The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone, O'er the newly-raised turf and the rudely-carved stone.

THE BRIDE'S FAREWELL.

BY MARY E. BROOKS.

Farewell to thee, To thee, the young home of my heart, farewell! How often will thy form in memory Renew the spell; Each burning tone, Far sweeter than the wild bird's melting note; Across my spirit like a dream by-gone, Their voices float.

When rose the song, The life gush of the bosom, fresh and free, There breathed no sorrow as it swept along Thy halls of glee; Oh, when the gay, The merry hearted blend the tide again, Then fling to her, the loved one far away, One kindly strain.

The skies are bright That canopy thy bowers, my soul's young rest; And, like thy fairy visions, robed in light, The loveliest: The bird among Thy deep perfumes pours its rich melody; Oh, in the music of that matin song Remember me!

Another now, Mother, above thy silvery locks must bend; And when the death-shade gathers on thy brow, Who then will tend Thy fading light? Oh, in its gleam all feebly, tremblingly, The last gush of thy spirit in its flight, Remember me!

Sister, one sigh Upon the midnight's balmy breath did float; One love-lit smile beneath the summer sky, One echo note: Oh, never yet, Through love, life, music, feeling, fragrancy, Can I the mingling of those hours forget; Remember me!

The chained spell Is strong, my own fair home, that bids us sever; And bound in loveliness to break, no, never! Then fare thee well: And perished here, As from the rosy leaf the dew that fell, I dash from love's young wreath the passing tear; My own bright home, farewell!

REFLECTIONS.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

[Written in her Fifteenth year, on seeing an ancient picture of the Virgin Mary.]

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell Of book, of rosary, and bell; Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom, Immured within her living tomb; Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song, Borne gently by the breeze along; Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell; Of ave maria, and funeral knell; Of midnight taper, dim and small, Just glimmering through the high-arched hall; Of gloomy cell, of penance lone, Which can for darkest deeds atone: Roll back, and lift the veil of night, For I would view the anchorite. Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale, Shuddering at Superstition's tale; Crossing his breast with meagre hand, While saints and priests, a motley band, Arrayed before him, urge their claim To heal in the Redeemer's name; To mount the saintly ladder, (made By every monk, of every grade, From portly abbot, fat and fair, To yon lean starveling, shivering there,) And mounting thus, to usher in The soul, thus ransomed from its sin. And tell me, hapless bigot! why, For what, for whom did Jesus die, If pyramids of saints must rise To form a passage to the skies? And think you man can wipe away With fast and penance, day by day, One single sin, too dark to fade Before a bleeding Saviour's shade? O ye of little faith, beware! For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer, Would ought avail ye without Him, Beside whom saints themselves grow dim. Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise The faded forms of other days! Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand, The work of some forgotten hand, Will teach thee half thy mazy way, While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play. Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell Of secret charm, of holy spell, Of Superstition's midnight rite, Of wild Devotion's seraph flight; Of Melancholy's tearful eye, Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh, That trembling from her bosom rose, Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes And some warm image lingering there, Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer, Still, like an outcast child, will creep Where sweetly it was wont to sleep, And mingle its unhallowed sigh With cloister-prayer and rosary; Then tell the pale, deluded one Her vows are breathed to God alone; Those vows, which tremulously rise, Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice.

LINES.

BY EMMA C. EMBURY.

When in the shadow of the tomb This heart shall rest, Oh! lay me where spring flowers bloom On earth's bright breast.

Oh! ne'er in vaulted chambers lay My lifeless form; Seek not of such mean, worthless prey To cheat the worm.

In this sweet city of the dead I fain would sleep, Where flowers may deck my narrow bed, And night dews weep.

But raise not the sepulchral stone To mark the spot; Enough, if by thy heart alone 'Tis ne'er forgot.

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON

I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid! and I rest In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast; At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat, When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat.

When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses flow In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow; O then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art, And listen to music which steals from thy heart.

Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul, My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll; I feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes.

The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me; There are some which, half-breathed, half-acknowledged by thee, Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest.

Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies, With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled skies; I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping, To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping.

I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night; Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie, Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy;

My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art, My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart. Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled, And the young rays of morning are wreathed round my head.

WHAT IS SOLITUDE?

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Not in the shadowy wood, Not in the crag-hung glen, Not where the sleeping echoes brood In caves untrod by men; Not by the sea-swept shore Where loitering surges break, Not on the mountain hoar, Not by the breezeless lake, Not in the desert plain Where man hath never stood, Whether on isle or main— Not there is Solitude!

There are birds in the woodland bowers, Voices in lonely dells, And streams that talk to the listening hours In earth's most secret cells. There is life on the foam-flecked sand By ocean's curling lip, And life on the still lake's strand 'Mid flowers that o'er it dip; There is life in the tossing pines That plume the mountain crest, And life in the courser's mane that shines As he scours the desert's breast.

But go to the crowded mart, 'Mid the sordid haunts of men, Go there and ask thy heart, What answer makes it then? Go where the wine-cup's gleaming, In hall or festal grot; Where love-lit eyes are beaming, But Love himself is not!— Go—if thou wouldst be lonely— Where the phantom Pleasure's wooed, And own that there—there only— 'Mid crowds is Solitude.

THE BRAVE.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Where have the valiant sunk to rest, When their sands of life were numbered? On the downy couch? on the gentle breast Where their youthful visions slumbered?

When the mighty passed the gate of death, Did love stand by bewailing? No! but upon war's fiery breath Their blood-dyed flag was sailing!

Not on the silent feverish bed, With weeping friends around them, Were the parting prayers of the valiant said, When death's dark angel found them.

But in the stern and stormy strife, In the flush of lofty feeling, They yielded to honour the boon of life, Where battle's bolts were pealing;

When the hot war-steed, with crimsoned mane Trampled on breasts all stained and gory, Dashed his red hoof on the reeking plain, And shared in the rider's glory.

Or seek the brave in their ocean grave, 'Neath the dark and restless water; Seek them beneath the whelming wave, So oft deep dyed with slaughter.

There sleep the gallant and the proud, The eagle-eyed and the lion-hearted; For whom the trump of fame rang loud, When the body and soul were parted.

Or seek them on fields where the grass grows deep, Where the vulture and the raven hover; There the sons of battle in quiet sleep: And widowed love goes there to weep, That their bright career is over.

MORNING.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

I come in the breath of the wakened breeze, I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees; And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, From its throne, on the lily's pure bosom of white. Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high; When my gay purple banners are waving afar; When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each star; When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, Then awake thee, O maiden, I bid thee awake! Thou may'st slumber when all the wide arches of Heaven Glitter bright with the beautiful fires of even; When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high, O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky, Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, To their far away harbour, all silently driven, Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light, Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and night; When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save where The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star; When all is in silence and solitude here, Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear! But when I steal silently over the lake, Awake thee then, maiden, awake! Oh, awake!

LAKE GEORGE.

BY MRS. E. F. ELLET.

Not in the bannered castle Beside the gilded throne, On fields where knightly ranks have strode, In feudal halls—alone The Spirit of the stately mien, Whose presence flings a spell, Fadeless on all around her, In empire loves to dwell.

Gray piles and moss-grown cloisters, Call up the shadows vast That linger in their dim domain, Dreams of the visioned past! As sweep the gorgeous pageants by We watch the pictured train, And sigh that aught so glorious Should be so brief and vain.

But here a spell yet deeper Breathes from the woods and sky, Proudlier these rocks and waters speak Of hoar antiquity; Here Nature built her ancient realm While yet the world was young, Her monuments of grandeur Unshaken stand, and strong.

Here shines the sun of Freedom For ever o'er the deep, Where Freedom's heroes by the shore In peaceful glory sleep; And deeds of high and proud emprize In every breeze are told, The everlasting tribute To hearts that now are cold.

Farewell, then, scenes so lovely, If sunset gild your rest, Or the pale starlight gleam upon The water's silvery breast— Or morning on these glad, green isles In trembling splendour glows— A holier spell than beauty Hallows your pure repose!

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

BY W. H. L. BOGART.

Like the lone emigrant who seeks a home In the wild regions of the far-off west, And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come, Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.

Like him I have sought out a solitude Where all around me is unsullied yet, And reared a tenement of words as rude As the first hut on Indian prairies set.

O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons tread Their march of storm and sunshine o'er the land, Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head, And sway the soil with high and proud command.

And round my verse the better, brighter thought Of beauty and of genius will be placed— Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught, By manly or by fairy fingers traced.

Our fate's the same—the gentle and the proud Will speed their voyage to oblivion's sea, And I shall soon be lost amid the crowd That seek a place within thy memory.

THE FADED ONE.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK

Gone to the slumber which may know no waking Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell; Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking, In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom, Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath: A seal is set upon thy budding bosom, A bond of loneliness—a spell of death!

Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before thee Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours; Joy's radiant smile was playing briefly o'er thee, And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers. The restless spirit charmed thy sweet existence, Making all beauteous in youth's pleasant maze, While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, And lit with sunbeams thy expectant days.

How have the garlands of thy childhood withered, And hope's false anthem died upon the air! Death's cloudy tempests o'er thy way have gathered, And his stern bolts have burst in fury there. On thy pale forehead sleeps the shade of even, Youth's braided wreath lies stained in sprinkled dust, Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven, Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.

PROEM TO YAMOYDEN.

BY R. C. SANDS.—1820.

Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain, The last that either bard shall e'er essay! The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again, That first awoke them, in a happier day: Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way, His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave; And he who feebly now prolongs the lay Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallowed honours crave; His harp lies buried deep in that untimely grave!

Friend of my youth, [M] with thee began the love Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams, 'Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove, O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams; Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom gleams Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage, For ever lit by memory's twilight beams; Where the proud dead, that live in storied page, Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.

There would we linger oft, entranc'd, to hear, O'er battle fields the epic thunders roll; Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole; There would we mark, uncurbed by all control, In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight; Or hold communion with the musing soul Of sage or bard, who sought, 'mid pagan night, In lov'd Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light.

Homeward we turned, to that fair land, but late Redeemed from the strong spell that bound it fast, Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate And kept the key, till three millenniums past; When, as creation's noblest work was last, Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast, And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be An empire and a home, most worthy for the free.

And here, forerunners strange and meet were found, Of that bless'd freedom, only dreamed before;— Dark were the morning mists, that lingered round Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. "Earth was their mother;"—or they knew no more, Or would not that their secret should be told; For they were grave and silent; and such lore, To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught of old.

Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew Their needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard; And him whom strength and wisdom crowned, they knew, But with no servile reverence, as their lord. And on their mountain summits they adored One great, good Spirit, in his high abode, And thence their incense and orisons poured To his pervading presence, that abroad They felt through all his works,—their Father, King, and God.

And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray, The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, Soft falling showers, or hues of orient day, They imaged spirits beautiful and good; But when the tempest roared, with voices rude, Or fierce, red lightning fired the forest pine, Or withering heats untimely seared the wood, The angry forms they saw of powers malign; These they besought to spare, those blest for aid divine.

As the fresh sense of life, through every vein, With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, And as the fleet deer's agile was their frame; Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name; These simple truths went down from sire to son,— To reverence age,—the sluggish hunter's shame, And craven warrior's infamy to shun,— And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred done.

From forest shades they peered, with awful dread, When, uttering flame and thunder from its side, The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide. Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' pride From shores and hills has vanished, with the race, Their tenants erst, from memory who have died, Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace, In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequestered place.

And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain, Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet, To people scenes, where still their names remain; And so began our young, delighted strain, That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave, And bid their martial hosts arise again, Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave, And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the wave.

Friend of my youth! with thee began my song, And o'er thy bier its latest accents die; Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,— Though not to me the muse averse deny, Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry, Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er; And he who loved with thee his notes to try, But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore, And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more.

But, no! the freshness of the past shall still Sacred to memory's holiest musings be; When through the ideal fields of song, at will, He roved and gathered chaplets wild with thee; When, reckless of the world, alone and free, Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea; Their white apparel and their streamers gay, Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly ray;—

And downward, far, reflected in the clear Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees; So buoyant, they do seem to float in air, And silently obey the noiseless breeze; Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please, They part for distant ports: the gales benign Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees, To its own harbour sure, where each divine And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.

Muses of Helicon! melodious race Of Jove and golden-haired MnemosynÉ; Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace, And drives each scowling form of grief away! Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay Once trod, and round the altar of great Jove; Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove, That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and filled his courts above.

Bright choir! with lips untempted, and with zone Sparkling, and unapproached by touch profane; Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain; Rightly invoked,—if right the elected swain, On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore, Whose honoured hand took not your gift in vain, Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,— [N] Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.

THE INDIAN.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

BY WILLIAM DUER.

Fair orb! so peacefully sublime, In silence rolling high, Know'st thou of passion, or of crime, Or earthly vanity?

In that bright world can lust abide, Or murder bare his arm? With thee are wars, and kings, and pride, And the loud trump's alarm?

What beings, by what motives led, Inhale thy morning breeze? Doth man upon thy mountains tread, Or float upon thy seas?

Say, whence are they? and what their fate? Whom whirls around thy ball? Their present and their future state, Their hopes and fears recall?

Canst thou of a Redeemer tell, Or a Betrayer's kiss? Their's is a Heaven or a Hell? Eternal woe or bliss?

Can infidelity exist, And gaze upon that sky? Here would I bid the Atheist God's finger to deny.

What horrid sounds! what horrid sights! What wretched blood is spilt! While thou, and all the eternal lights, Shine conscious on the guilt?

Thou hear'st red Murder's victims cry; Thou mark'st Lust's stealthy pace; And Avarice hide his heap and sigh; And Rapine's reckless face.

In thy pale light the Suicide, By some deep lonely lake, Or from the headlong torrent's side Doth the vain world forsake.

And often, ere thy course is run, Thy cold, uncertain light Gleams where the culprit's skeleton Swings to the winds of night.

A light cloud hangs upon thy brow, (What foul deed would it hide?) 'Tis gone: thine orb, unshaded now, Looks down on human pride.

And now the midnight hour invites Th' accursed witch's vow, While to her thrice accursed rites Sole witness rollest thou!

Lo! underneath yon falling tower The tottering beldame seeks Herbs, of some hidden evil power, While muttered charms she speaks.

Or where some noisome cavern yawns, Where vipers get their food, Or where the Nile's huge offspring spawns Her pestilential brood:

There—while the bubbling cauldron sings Beneath their eldritch glance— As wild their fiendish laughter rings, The haggard sisters dance.

Can sin endure thy majesty, Nor thy pure presence fly? 'Tis like the sad severity Of a fond father's eye.

There, where no mortal eye can see, No mortal voice can tell, Wisdom hath marked thy path to be Th' Almighty's sentinel.

LINES WRITTEN ON THE COVER OF A PRAYER BOOK.

BY THOMAS SLIDELL.

There is a tree, whose boughs are clad With foliage that never dies; Whose fruits perennially thrive, And whose tall top salutes the skies.

There is a flower of loveliest hues, No mildews blast its changeless bloom; It smiles at the rude tempest's wrath, And breathes a still more sweet perfume.

There is a star, whose constant rays Beam brightest in the darkest hour, And cheer the weary pilgrim's heart, Though storms around his pathway lower.

That tree, the Tree of Life is called, That flower blooms on Virtue's stem, That star, whose rays are never veiled, Is the bright Star of Bethlehem.

ODE TO JAMESTOWN.

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Old cradle of an infant world, In which a nestling empire lay, Struggling awhile, ere she unfurl'd, Her gallant wing and soar'd away; All hail! thou birth-place of the glowing west, Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruin'd nest!

What solemn recollections throng, What touching visions rise, As wand'ring these old stones among, I backward turn mine eyes, And see the shadows of the dead flit round, Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.

The wonders of an age combin'd In one short moment memory supplies, They throng upon my waken'd mind, As time's dark curtains rise. The volume of a hundred buried years, Condens'd in one bright sheet, appears.

I hear the angry ocean rave, I see the lonely little barque Scudding along the crested wave, Freighted like old Noah's ark, As o'er the drowned earth it whirl'd, With the forefathers of another world.

I see a train of exiles stand, Amid the desert, desolate, The fathers of my native land, The daring pioneers of fate, Who brav'd the perils of the sea and earth, And gave a boundless empire birth.

I see the gloomy Indian range His woodland empire, free as air; I see the gloomy forest change, The shadowy earth laid bare; And, where the red man chas'd the bounding deer, The smiling labours of the white appear.

I see the haughty warrior gaze In wonder or in scorn, As the pale faces sweat to raise Their scanty fields of corn, While he, the monarch of the boundless wood, By sport, or hair-brain'd rapine, wins his food.

A moment, and the pageant's gone; The red men are no more; The pale fac'd strangers stand alone Upon the river's shore; And the proud wood king, who their arts disdain'd, Finds but a bloody grave where once he reign'd.

The forest reels beneath the stroke Of sturdy woodman's axe; The earth receives the white man's yoke, And pays her willing tax Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields, And all that nature to blithe labour yields.

Then growing hamlets rear their heads, And gathering crowds expand, Far as my fancy's vision spreads, O'er many a boundless land, Till what was once a world of savage strife, Teems with the richest gifts of social life.

Empire to empire swift succeeds, Each happy, great, and free; One empire still another breeds, A giant progeny, To war upon the pigmy gods of earth, The tyrants, to whom ignorance gave birth.

Then, as I turn, my thoughts to trace The fount whence these rich waters sprung, I glance towards this lonely place, And find it, these rude stones among. Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping sound, The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.

Their names have been forgotten long; The stone, but not a word, remains; They cannot live in deathless song, Nor breathe in pious strains. Yet this sublime obscurity, to me More touching is, than poet's rhapsody.

They live in millions that now breathe; They live in millions yet unborn, And pious gratitude shall wreathe As bright a crown as e'er was worn, And hang it on the green leav'd bough, That whispers to the nameless dead below.

No one that inspiration drinks; No one that loves his native land; No one that reasons, feels, or thinks, Can 'mid these lonely ruins stand, Without a moisten'd eye, a grateful tear Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.

The mighty shade now hovers round— Of HIM whose strange, yet bright career, Is written on this sacred ground In letters that no time shall sere; Who in the old world smote the turban'd crew, And founded Christian Empires in the new.

And SHE! the glorious Indian maid, The tutelary of this land, The angel of the woodland shade, The miracle of God's own hand, Who join'd man's heart to woman's softest grace, And thrice redeem'd the scourgers of her race.

Sister of charity and love, Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide, Dear Goddess of the Sylvan grove. Flower of the Forest, nature's pride, He is no man who does not bend the knee, And she no woman who is not like thee!

Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallow'd rock, To me shall ever sacred be— I care not who my themes may mock, Or sneer at them and me. I envy not the brute who here can stand, Without a prayer for his own native land.

And if the recreant crawl her earth, Or breathe Virginia's air, Or, in New-England claim his birth, From the old Pilgrim's there, He is a bastard, if he dare to mock, Old Jamestown's shrine, or Plymouth's famous rock.

LOOK ALOFT.

BY JONATHAN LAWRENCE, JUN.

[The following lines were suggested by an anecdote said to have been related by the late Dr. Godman, of the ship-boy who was about to fall from the rigging, and was only saved by the mate's characteristic exclamation, "Look aloft, you lubber."]

In the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail— If thine eye should grow dim and thy caution depart— "Look aloft" and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe, Should betray thee when sorrow like clouds are arrayed, "Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and through tears of repentant regret, "Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart— The wife of thy bosom—in sorrow depart, "Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And oh! when death comes in terrors, to cast, His fears on the future, his pall on the past, In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart, And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft" and depart!

FRAGMENT.

BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.—1747.

Father of Light! exhaustless source of good! Supreme, eternal, self-existent God! Before the beamy sun dispensed a ray, Flamed in the azure vault, and gave the day; Before the glimmering moon with borrow'd light Shone queen amid the silver host of night, High in the heavens, thou reign'dst superior Lord, By suppliant angels worshipp'd and adored. With the celestial choir then let me join In cheerful praises to the power divine. To sing thy praise, do thou, O God! inspire A mortal breast with more than mortal fire. In dreadful majesty thou sitt'st enthroned, With light encircled, and with glory crown'd: Through all infinitude extends thy reign, For thee, nor heaven, nor heaven of heavens contain; But though thy throne is fix'd above the sky Thy omnipresence fills immensity.

BYRON.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

His faults were great, his virtues less, His mind a burning lamp of Heaven; His talents were bestowed to bless, But were as vainly lost as given.

His was a harp of heavenly sound, The numbers wild, and bold, and clear; But ah! some demon, hovering round, Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear.

His was a mind of giant mould, Which grasped at all beneath the skies; And his, a heart, so icy cold, That virtue in its recess dies.

JOY AND SORROW.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Joy kneels at morning's rosy prime, In worship to the rising sun; But Sorrow loves the calmer time, When the day-god his course hath run; When night is on her shadowy car, Pale Sorrow wakes while Joy doth sleep; And guided by the evening star, She wanders forth to muse and weep.

Joy loves to cull the summer flower, And wreath it round his happy brow; But when the dark autumnal hour Hath laid the leaf and blossoms low; When the frail bud hath lost its worth, And Joy hath dashed it from his crest; Then Sorrow takes it from the earth, To wither on her withered breast.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

BY LUCRETIA M. DAVIDSON.

Thou brightly-glittering star of even, Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven, Oh! were this fluttering spirit free, How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee.

How calmly, brightly dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine! Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost.

There, beings pure as Heaven's own air, Their hopes, their joys together share; While hovering angels touch the string, And seraphs spread the sheltering wing.

There cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights; There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, And unregretted by the soul.

Thou little sparkling star of even, Thou gem upon an azure Heaven, How swiftly will I soar to thee When this imprisoned soul is free.

THE FALLS OF THE PASSAIC.

BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashion'd a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence roll'd gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonish'd the sight, No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight; Here the wild flow'ret blossom'd, the elm proudly waved, And pure was the current the green bank that laved.

But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood, And deep in its gloom fix'd his murky abode, Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform, And gloried in thunder, and lightning and storm;

All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came, Where the red men encounter'd the children of flame, While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears, And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears:

With a glance of disgust he the landscape survey'd, With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade;— Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene.

He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low; He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow; He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave, And hurl'd down the chasm the thundering wave.

Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of time— Cultivation has softened those features sublime; The axe of the white man has lighten'd the shade, And dispell'd the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye, On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high; Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam, Where the torrent leaps headlong embosom'd in foam.

DRINK AND AWAY.

BY THE REV. WILLIAM CROSWELL.

[There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received into a large basin, which bears name signifying "Drink and Away," from the great danger of meeting with gues and assassins. —Dr. Shaw.]

Up! pilgrim and rover, Redouble thy haste! Nor rest thee till over Life's wearisome waste. Ere the wild forest ranger Thy footsteps betray To trouble and danger,— Oh, drink and away!

Here lurks the dark savage By night and by day, To rob and to ravage, Nor scruples to slay. He waits for the slaughter: The blood of his prey Shall stain the still water,— Then drink and away!

With toil though thou languish, The mandate obey, Spur on, though in anguish, There's death in delay! No blood-hound, want-wasted, Is fiercer than they:— Pass by it untested— Or drink and away!

Though sore be the trial, Thy God is thy stay, Though deep the denial, Yield not in dismay, But, wrapt in high vision, Look on to the day When the fountains Elysian Thy thirst shall allay.

There shalt thou for ever Enjoy thy repose Where life's gentle river Eternally flows, Yea, there shalt thou rest thee For ever and aye, With none to molest thee— Then, drink and away.

THE HUDSON.

BY MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES, 1793.

Through many a blooming wild and woodland green The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray; Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen, And now through arching willows steal away: Now more majestic rolls the ample tide, Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade, And many a stately dome, in ancient pride, And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head.

There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand, The honeyed buck-wheat's clustering blossoms view, Dripping rich odours, mark the beard-grain bland, The loaded orchard, and the flax field blue; The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove, The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank, The long green valley where the white flocks rove, The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank; The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow, Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam; The bending willow weeping o'er the stream, The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow.

Low sunk between the Alleganian hills, For many a league the sullen waters glide, And the deep murmur of the crowded tide, With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills. On the green summit of yon lofty clift A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow, Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift, Tremendous falls in the white surge below. Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far, Around it mountains vast their forests rear, And long ere day hath left its burnish'd car, The dews of night have shed their odours there. There hangs a loÜring rock across the deep; Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around; Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep, While Horror startles at the fearful sound. The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze, Glide through these winding rocks with airy sweep: Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees, And sloping pastures speck'd with fleecy sheep.

TRENTON FALLS, NEAR UTICA.

BY ANTHONY BLEECKER.

Ob: 1827.

Ye hills, who have for ages stood Sublimely in your solitude, Listening the wild water's roar, As thundering down, from steep to steep, Along your wave-worn sides they sweep, Dashing their foam from shore to shore.

Wild birds, that loved the deep recess, Fell beast that roved the wilderness, And savage men once hover'd round: But startled at your bellowing waves, Your frowning cliffs, and echoing caves, Affrighted fled the enchanted ground.

How changed the scene!—your lofty trees, Which bent but to the mountain breeze, Have sunk beneath the woodman's blade; New sun-light through your forest pours, Paths wind along your sides and shores, And footsteps all your haunts invade.

Now boor, and beau, and lady fair, In gay costume each day repair, Where thy proud rocks exposed stand, While echo, from her old retreats, With babbling tongue strange words repeats, From babblers on your stony strand.

And see—the torrent's rocky floor, With names and dates all scribbled o'er, Vile blurs on nature's heraldry; O bid your river in its race, These mean memorials soon efface, And keep your own proud album free.

Languid thy tides, and quell'd thy powers, But soon Autumnus with his showers, Shall all thy wasted strength restore; Then will these ramblers down thy steep, With terror pale their distance keep, Nor dare to touch thy trembling shore.

But spare, Oh! river, in thy rage, One name upon thy stony page; 'Tis hers—the fairest of the fair; And when she comes these scenes to scan, Then tell her, Echo, if you can, His humble name who wrote it there.

THE DUMB MINSTREL.

BY JAMES NACK.

And am I doom'd to be denied for ever The blessings that to all around are given? And shall those links be re-united ever, That bound me to mankind till they were riven In childhood's day? Alas! how soon to sever From social intercourse, the doom of heaven Was pass'd upon me! And the hope how vain, That the decree may be recall'd again.

Amid a throng in deep attention bound, To catch the accents that from others fall, The flow of eloquence the heavenly sound Breathed from the soul of melody, while all Instructed or delighted list around, Vacant unconsciousness must me enthrall! I can but watch each animated face, And there attempt th' inspiring theme to trace.

Unheard, unheeded are the lips by me, To others that unfold some heaven-born art, And melody—Oh, dearest melody! How had thine accents, thrilling to my heart, Awaken'd all its strings to sympathy, Bidding the spirit at thy magic start! How had my heart responsive to the strain, Throbb'd in love's wild delight or soothing pain.

In vain—alas, in vain! thy numbers roll— Within my heart no echo they inspire; Though form'd by nature in thy sweet control, To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire, Misfortune closed the portals of the soul; And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre, That can to animation kindle stone, To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.

THE GREEN ISLE OF LOVERS.

BY R. C. SANDS.

They say that afar in the land of the west, Where the bright golden sun sinks in glory to rest, 'Mid fens where the hunter ne'er ventured to tread, A fair lake unruffled and sparkling is spread; Where, lost in his course, the rapt Indian discovers, In distance seen dimly, the green isle of lovers.

There verdure fades never; immortal in bloom, Soft waves the magnolia its groves of perfume; And low bends the branch with rich fruitage depress'd, All glowing like gems in the crowns of the east; There the bright eye of nature, in mild glory hovers: 'Tis the land of the sunbeam,—the green isle of lovers!

Sweet strains wildly float on the breezes that kiss The calm-flowing lake round that region of bliss; Where, wreathing their garlands of amaranth, fair choirs Glad measures still weave to the sound that inspires The dance and the revel, 'mid forests that cover On high with their shade the green isle of the lover.

But fierce as the snake with his eyeballs of fire, When his scales are all brilliant and glowing with ire, Are the warriors to all, save the maids of their isle, Whose law is their will, whose life is their smile; From beauty there valour and strength are not rovers, And peace reigns supreme in the green isle of lovers.

And he who has sought to set foot on its shore, In mazes perplex'd, has beheld it no more; It fleets on the vision, deluding the view, Its banks still retire as the hunters pursue; O! who in this vain world of wo shall discover, The home undisturb'd, the green isle of the lover!

THAT SILENT MOON.

BY THE RT. REV. G. W. DOANE.

That silent moon, that silent moon, Careering now through cloudless sky, Oh! who shall tell what varied scenes Have pass'd beneath her placid eye, Since first, to light this wayward earth, She walked in tranquil beauty forth.

How oft has guilt's unhallow'd hand, And superstition's senseless rite, And loud, licentious revelry, Profaned her pure and holy light: Small sympathy is hers, I ween, With sights like these, that virgin queen.

But dear to her, in summer eve, By rippling wave, or tufted grove, When hand in hand is purely clasp'd, And heart meets heart in holy love, To smile, in quiet loneliness, And hear each whisper'd vow and bless.

Dispersed along the world's wide way, When friends are far, and fond ones rove, How powerful she to wake the thought, And start the tear for those we love! Who watch, with us, at night's pale noon, And gaze upon that silent moon.

How powerful, too, to hearts that mourn, The magic of that moonlight sky, To bring again the vanish'd scenes, The happy eves of days gone by; Again to bring, 'mid bursting tears, The loved, the lost of other years.

And oft she looks, that silent moon, On lonely eyes that wake to weep, In dungeon dark, or sacred cell, Or couch, whence pain has banish'd sleep: Oh! softly beams that gentle eye, On those who mourn, and those who die.

But beam on whomsoe'er she will, And fall where'er her splendour may, There's pureness in her chasten'd light, There's comfort in her tranquil ray: What power is hers to soothe the heart— What power, the trembling tear to start!

The dewy morn let others love, Or bask them in the noontide ray; There's not an hour but has its charm, From dawning light to dying day:— But oh! be mine a fairer boon— That silent moon, that silent moon!

TO A CIGAR.

BY SAMUEL LOW.—1800.

Sweet antidote to sorrow, toil, and strife, Charm against discontent and wrinkled care. Who knows thy power can never know despair; Who knows thee not, one solace lacks of life: When cares oppress, or when the busy day Gives place to tranquil eve, a single puff Can drive even want and lassitude away, And give a mourner happiness enough. From thee when curling clouds of incense rise, They hide each evil that in prospect lies; But when in evanescence fades thy smoke, Ah! what, dear sedative, my cares shall smother? If thou evaporate, the charm is broke, Till I, departing taper, light another.

HOPE.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

See through yon cloud that rolls in wrath, One little star benignant peep, To light along their trackless path The wanderers of the stormy deep.

And thus, oh Hope! thy lovely form In sorrow's gloomy night shall be The sun that looks through cloud and storm Upon a dark and moonless sea.

When heaven is all serene and fair, Full many a brighter gem we meet; 'Tis when the tempest hovers there, Thy beam is most divinely sweet.

The rainbow, when the sun declines, Like faithless friend will disappear; Thy light, dear star! more brightly shines When all is wail and weeping here.

And though Aurora's stealing beam May wake a morning of delight, 'Tis only thy consoling gleam Will smile amid affliction's night.

THE LAKE OF CAYOSTÊA.

BY ROBERT BARKER.

Ob: 1831, Æt. 27.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

When Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there. She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure celestial white, With streakings of the morning light; Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land.

Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, Child of the sun! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory!

Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on. Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimm'd the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn; And as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall; Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall shrink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death.

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendours fly In triumph o'er his closing eye.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home! By angel hands to valour given; Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. For ever float that standard sheet! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

MORNING HYMN.

Genesis i. 3.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

"Let there be light!" The Eternal spoke, And from the abyss where darkness rode The earliest dawn of nature broke, And light around creation flow'd. The glad earth smiled to see the day, The first-born day came blushing in; The young day smiled to shed its ray Upon a world untouched by sin.

"Let there be light!" O'er heaven and earth, The God who first the day-beam pour'd, Whispered again his fiat forth, And shed the Gospel's light abroad. And, like the dawn, its cheering rays On rich and poor were meant to fall, Inspiring their Redeemer's praise In lonely cot and lordly hall.

Then come, when in the Orient first Flushes the signal light for prayer; Come with the earliest beams that burst From God's bright throne of glory there. Come kneel to Him who through the night Hath watched above thy sleeping soul, To Him whose mercies, like his light, Are shed abroad from pole to pole.

BRONX.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

I sat me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy.

Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frost-work which young winter freezes; When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying.

From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, The gold-cup sorrel from his gauzy screen Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded.

The hum-bird shook his sun-touched wings around, The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat; The antic squirrel capered on the ground Where lichens made a carpet for his feet: Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle.

There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting Gaudy as rustics in their May-day dresses, Blue pelloret from purple leaves upslanting A modest gaze, like eyes of a young maiden Shining beneath dropt lids the evening of her wedding.

The breeze fresh springing from the lips of morn, Kissing the leaves, and sighing so to lose 'em, The winding of the merry locust's horn, The glad spring gushing from the rock's bare bosom: Sweet sights, sweet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling, Oh! 'twas a ravishing spot formed for a poet's dwelling.

And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? Left I for this thy shades, where none intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude?

Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remembered form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy.

THE STORM-KING.

BY ROSWELL PARK.

The mist descended from the snow That whiten'd o'er the cliff; The clouds were gather'd round its brow, And solemn darkness reign'd below The peak of Teneriffe.

For on that rocky peak and high, Magnificent and lone, The awful Storm-King of the sky, Beyond the reach of mortal eye, Had rear'd his cloudy throne.

By him the raging winds unfurl'd, Swept o'er the prostrate land; And thence, above the affrighted world, The flashing thunderbolts were hurl'd Forth from his red right hand.—

Uprising from his cave of jet, While mists obscured his form, With streaming locks and vesture wet, The Spirit of the ocean met The Spirit of the storm.

"And why so madly dost thou dare, Proud Spirit of the sea, To tempt the monarch of the air, With the whirlwind's rage and the lightning's glare? What seekest thou of me?"

"I have risen afar from my coral caves, Where the pearls are sparkling bright, To roam o'er the isles I have girt with my waves; And I hurl defiance at thee and thy slaves, And I challenge thee here to the fight!"

"Take this in return!" and the thunderbolt rush'd From the midst of a cloud of fire; The tempest forth from his nostrils gush'd, And the island forest his footsteps crush'd, In the burning of his ire.

Now fierce o'er the waters mad hurricanes boom, And the depths of the ocean uprend; Now the waves lash the skies with their torrents of foam, And whirlwinds and billows in furious gloom, Meet, mingle, and fiercely contend.

But the monarch of ocean spurns his thrall, And evades his fierce controul;— Away in his ice-clad crystal hall, He still reigns absolute monarch of all That surrounds his frozen pole.

The day breaks forth, and the storm is past,— Again are the elements free; But many a vessel is still sinking fast, And many a mariner rests at last, In the bosom of the sea!

SONG—ROSALIE CLARE.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Who owns not she's peerless—who calls her not fair— Who questions the beauty of Rosalie Clare? Let him saddle his courser and spur to the field, And though coated in proof, he must perish or yield; For no gallant can splinter—no charger can dare The lance that is couched for young Rosalie Clare.

When goblets are flowing, and wit at the board Sparkles high, while the blood of the red grape is poured, And fond wishes for fair ones around offered up From each lip that is wet with the dew of the cup,— What name on the brimmer floats oftener there, Or is whispered more warmly, than Rosalie Clare?

They may talk of the land of the olive and vine— Of the maids of the Ebro, the Arno, or Rhine;— Of the Houris that gladden the East with their smiles, Where the sea's studded over with green summer isles; But what flower of far away clime can compare With the blossom of ours—bright Rosalie Clare?

Who owns not she's peerless—who calls her not fair? Let him meet but the glances of Rosalie Clare! Let him list to her voice—let him gaze on her form— And if, hearing and seeing, his soul do not warm, Let him go breathe it out in some less happy air Than that which is blessed by sweet Rosalie Clare.

TO A PACKET SHIP.

BY ROSWELL PARK.

Speed, gallant bark! to thy home o'er the wave! The clouds gather dark, and the mad billows rave;— The tempest blows o'er thee, and scatters the spray That lies in thy wake, as thou wingest thy way.

Speed, gallant bark! to the land of the free, The home of the happy, beyond the wide sea! Dear friends and near kindred, the lovely and fair, Are waiting, impatient, to welcome thee there!

Speed, gallant bark! there's a seat at the board, Which the dame and the damsel reserve for their lord; And the fond-hearted maiden is sighing in vain, To welcome her long-absent lover again.

Speed, gallant bark! richer cargo is thine, Than Brazilian gem, or Peruvian mine; And the treasures thou bearest, thy destiny wait; For they, if thou perish, must share in thy fate.

Speed, gallant bark! though the land is afar, And the storm-clouds above thee have veil'd every star; The needle shall guide thee, the helm shall direct, And the God of the tempest thy pathway protect!

Speed, gallant bark! though the lightning may flash; And over thy deck the huge surges may dash;— Thy sails are all reef'd, and thy streamers are high; Unheeded and harmless the billows roll by!

Speed, gallant bark! the tornado is past; Staunch and secure thou hast weather'd the blast; Now spread thy full sails to the wings of the morn, And soon the glad harbour shall greet thy return!

MOONLIGHT.

BY ROBERT BARKER.

How dear to love the moonlight hour, Beneath the calm transparent ether, It seems as if by magic power They breathe in unison together. When forest glen and fountain bright Are tinged with shades of mellow light, And every earthly sound is still Save murmur of the mountain rill; 'Tis then to lull the breast's commotion, And waken every soft emotion, To charm from sorrow's cheek her tears, And place the smiles of rapture there, "Celestial music of the spheres" Comes floating on the evening air. 'Tis then that fancy wings her flight Beyond the bounds to mortals given; To regions where the lamps of night Illume the path which leads to heaven. 'Tis then she holds communion sweet With seraphs round the eternal throne, Where long-departed spirits meet, To worship him who sits thereon. 'Tis then man dreams of Paradise, If aught he dreams of place like this, 'Tis then he breathes the crystal air, Which Peris breathe who wander there, And sips the fount of Native Love Found no where but in heaven above.

SONG.

BY J. R. DRAKE.

'Tis not the beam of her bright blue eye, Nor the smile of her lip of rosy dye, Nor the dark brown wreaths of her glossy hair, Nor her changing cheek, so rich and rare. Oh! these are the sweets of a fairy dream, The changing hues of an April sky; They fade like dew in the morning beam, Or the passing zephyr's odour'd sigh.

'Tis a dearer spell that bids me kneel, 'Tis the heart to love, and the soul to feel: 'Tis the mind of light, and the spirit free, And the bosom that heaves alone for me. Oh! these are the sweets that kindly stay From youth's gay morning to age's night; When beauty's rainbow tints decay, Love's torch still burns with a holy light.

Soon will the bloom of the fairest fade, And love will droop in the cheerless shade, Or if tears should fall on his wing of joy, It will hasten the flight of the laughing boy. But oh! the light of the constant soul Nor time can darken nor sorrow dim; Though we may weep in life's mingled bowl, Love still shall hover around its brim.

LÜTZOW'S WILD CHASE.

[ Translated from the German of KÖrner. ]

BY ROSWELL PARK.

What gleams from yon wood in the splendour of day? Hark! hear its wild din rushing nearer! It hither approaches in gloomy array, While loud sounding horns peal their blast on its way, The soul overwhelming with terror! Those swart companions you view in the race,— Those are LÜtzow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

What swiftly moves on through yon dark forest glade, From mountain to mountain deploying? They place themselves nightly in ambuscade, They shout the hurrah, and they draw the keen blade, The French usurpers destroying! Those swart Yagers bounding from place to place,— Those are LÜtzow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Where, midst glowing vines, as the Rhine murmurs by, The tyrant securely is sleeping;— They swiftly approach, 'neath the storm-glaring sky; With vigorous arms o'er the waters they ply; Soon safe on his island-shore leaping! Those swarthy swimmers whose wake you trace, Those are LÜtzow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Whence sweeps from yon valley the battle's loud roar, Where swords in thick carnage are clashing? Fierce horsemen encounter, 'mid lightnings and gore; The spark of true freedom is kindled once more, From war's bloody altars out-flashing! Those horsemen swart who the combat face, Those are LÜtzow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

Who smile their adieu to the light of the sun, 'Mid fallen foes moaning their bravery? Death creeps o'er their visage,—their labours are done;— Their valiant hearts tremble not;—victory's won; Their father-land rescued from slavery! Those swart warriors fallen in death's embrace, Those were LÜtzow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

The wild German Yagers,—their glorious careers Dealt death to the tyrant oppressor! Then weep not, dear friends, for the true volunteers, When the morn of our father-land's freedom appears; Since we alone died to redress her. Our mem'ry transmitted, no time shall erase;— Those were LÜtzow's roving, wild, venturous chase!

STANZAS.

BY JAMES NACK.

I know that thou art far away, Yet in my own despite My still expectant glances stray Inquiring for thy sight. Though all too sure that thy sweet face Can bless no glance of mine, At every turn, in every place, My eyes are seeking thine.

I hope—how vain the hope, I know— That some propitious chance May bring thee here again to throw Thy sweetness on my glance. But, loveliest one, where'er thou art, Whate'er be my despair, Mine eyes will seek thee, and my heart Will love thee every where.

LINES.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

[ Written beneath a dilapidated tower, yet standing among the ruins of Carthage. ]

Thou mouldering pile, that hath withstood The silent lapse of many ages, The earthquake's shock, the storm, the flood, Around whose base the ocean rages; Who reared thy walls that proudly brave The tempest, battle, and the wave?

Was it beneath thy ample dome That Marius rested, and from thee, When he had lost imperial Rome, Learned high resolve and constancy? Thou seem'st to mock the power of fate, And well might'st teach the lesson great.

Perhaps thy vaulted arch hath rung Of yore, with laughter's merry shout, While beauty round her glances flung To cheer some monarch's wassail rout; But mirth and beauty long have fled From this lone City of the Dead.

Where busy thousands oft have trod Beneath thy mouldering marble brow, Wild moss-grown fragments press the sod, Around thee all is silence now. And thus the breath of foul decay Shall melt at last thy form away.

Thou desolate, deserted pile, Lone vestage of departed glory, Sadly in ruin thou seem'st to smile, While baffled time flies frowning o'er thee, As if resolved the tale to tell Where Carthage stood, and how it fell.

Midst ruined walls thou stand'st alone, Around thee strewn may yet be seen The broken column, sculptured stone, And relics sad of what hath been. But thou alone survivest the fall, Defying Time, dread leveller of all.

FADED HOURS.

BY J. R. SUTERMINSTER.

Ob. 1836: Æt. 23.

Oh! for my bright and faded hours When life was like a summer stream, On whose gay banks the virgin flowers Blush'd in the morning's rosy beam; Or danced upon the breeze that bare Its store of rich perfume along, While the wood-robin pour'd on air The ravishing delights of song.

The sun look'd from his lofty cloud, While flow'd its sparkling waters fair— And went upon his pathway proud, And threw a brighter lustre there; And smiled upon the golden heaven, And on the earth's sweet loveliness, Where light, and joy, and song were given, The glad and fairy scene to bless!

Ah! these were bright and joyous hours, When youth awoke from boyhood's dream, To see life's Eden dress'd in flowers, While young hope bask'd in morning's beam! And proffer'd thanks to heaven above, While glow'd his fond and grateful breast, Who spread for him that scene of love And made him, so supremely blest!

That scene of love!—where hath it gone? Where have its charms and beauty sped? My hours of youth, that o'er me shone— Where have their light and splendour fled? Into the silent lapse of years— And I am left on earth to mourn: And I am left to drop my tears O'er memory's lone and icy urn!

Yet why pour forth the voice of wail O'er feeling's blighted coronal? Ere many gorgeous suns shall fail, I shall be gather'd in my pall; Oh, my dark hours on earth are few— My hopes are crush'd, my heart is riven;— And I shall soon bid life adieu, To seek enduring joys in heaven!

THE WIFE'S SONG.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

As the tears of the even, Illumined at day By the sweet light of heaven, Seem gems on each spray; So gladness to-morrow Shall shine on thy brow, The more bright for the sorrow That darkens it now.

Yet if fortune, believe me, Have evil in store, Though each other deceive thee, I'll love thee the more. As ivy leaves cluster More greenly and fair, When winter winds bluster Round trees that are bare.

LAMENT.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK.

There is a voice, I shall hear no more— There are tones, whose music for me is o'er; Sweet as the odours of spring were they,— Precious and rich—but they died away; They came like peace to my heart and ear— Never again will they murmur here; They have gone like the blush of a summer morn, Like a crimson cloud through the sunset borne.

There were eyes that late were lit up for me, Whose kindly glance was a joy to see; They revealed the thoughts of a trusting heart, Untouched by sorrow, untaught by art; Whose affections were fresh as a stream of spring When birds in the vernal branches sing; They were filled with love, that hath passed with them, And my lyre is breathing their requiem.

I remember a brow, whose serene repose Seemed to lend a beauty to cheeks of rose: And lips, I remember, whose dewy smile, As I mused on their eloquent power the while, Sent a thrill to my bosom, and bless'd my brain With raptures, that never may dawn again; Amidst musical accents those smiles were shed— Alas! for the doom of the early dead!

Alas! for the clod that is resting now On those slumbering eyes—on that faded brow; Wo for the cheek that hath ceased to bloom— For the lips that are dumb, in the noisome tomb; Their melody broken, their fragrance gone, Their aspect cold as the Parian stone; Alas for the hopes that with thee have died— Oh loved one!—would I were by thy side!

Yet the joy of grief it is mine to bear; I hear thy voice in the twilight air; Thy smile, of sweetness untold, I see When the visions of evening are borne to me; Thy kiss on my dreaming lip is warm— My arm embraceth thy graceful form; I wake in a world that is sad and drear, To feel in my bosom—thou art not here.

Oh! once the summer with thee was bright; The day, like thine eyes, wore a holy light. There was bliss in existence when thou wert nigh, There was balm in the evening's rosy sigh; Then earth was an Eden, and thou its guest— A Sabbath of blessings was in my breast; My heart was full of a sense of love, Likest of all things to heaven above.

Now, thou art gone to that voiceless hall Where my budding raptures have perished all; To that tranquil and solemn place of rest, Where the earth lies damp on the sinless breast; Thy bright locks all in the vault are hid— Thy brow is concealed by the coffin lid;— All that was lovely to me is there, Mournful is life, and a load to bear!

LINES

[ Written on a pane of glass in the house of a friend. ]

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

As playful boys by ocean's side Upon its margin trace, Some frail memorial which the tide Returning must efface; Thus I upon this brittle glass These tuneless verses scrawl, That they, when I away shall pass, May thought of me recall.

The waves that beat upon the strand Wash out the schoolboy's line, As soon some rude or careless hand May shiver those of mine. But though what I have written here In thousand fragments part, I trust my name will still be dear, And treasured in the heart.

THE SEPULCHRE OF DAVID.

BY WILLIAM L. STONE.

"As for Herod, he had spent vast sums about the cities, both without and within his own kingdom: and as he had before heard that Hyrcanus, who had been king before him, had opened David's sepulchre, and taken out of it three thousand talents of silver, and that there was a greater number left behind, and indeed enough to suffice all his wants, he had a great while an intention to make the attempt; and at this time he opened that sepulchre by night and went into it, and endeavoured that it should not be at all known in the city, but he took only his most faithful friends with him. As for any money, he found none, as Hyrcanus had done, but that furniture of gold, and those precious goods that were laid up there, all which he took away. However, he had a great desire to make diligent search, and to go farther in, even as far as the very bodies of David and Solomon; where two of his guards were slain by a flame that burst out upon those that went in, as the report was. So he was severely affrighted, and went out and built a propitiatory monument of that fright he had been in, and this of white stone, at the mouth of the sepulchre, and that at a great expense also. —Josephus.—

High on his throne of state, A form of noblest mould, The Hebrew monarch sate, All glorious to behold.

With purest gold inwrought, Full many a sparkling gem, From distant India brought, Enriched his diadem.

A crystal mirror bright, Beneath the canopy, Shot back in silvery light The monarch's panoply!

All round the lofty halls, Rich tapestries of gold Hung from the glittering walls, In many an ample fold.

And breathing sculptures there In living beauty stood, Borne by the monarch's care From o'er the Ægean flood.

Dipt in the rainbow's dyes, Apelles's magic hand, To please the wondering eyes Of Judah's haughty land,

In liquid colours bright, And traced with matchless care, Had left, in glorious light, Its richest beauties there!

The silver lamps by day, Hung massive, rich, and bright; And from the galleries gay Shone brilliantly by night.

And by the monarch's side, His guards, a noble band, Arrayed in regal pride, In burnished armour stand.

Proud chiefs and ladies fair, Swept the broad courts along:— In pleasures mingled there,— A gay and gallant throng!

Apollo's tuneful choir, And Korah's sons of song, With psaltery, harp, and lyre, Were mingled in the throng. [O]

And from each trembling string, Sweet sounds of music stole; Gentle as Zephyr's wing, The tuneful numbers roll.

Beyond the portals wide, Beneath the sylvan bower, Cool founts, in sparkling pride, Send forth their silvery shower.

The flowerets gay and wild, In beauty bloomed not less, Than erst when Eden smiled, In pristine loveliness.

And through the gorgeous halls Rich odours filled the air, Sweet as the dew that falls On Araby the fair!

All that could foster pride, All that could banish care, Was gathered by his side, And richly lavished there.

Lost to the splendid show, The monarch's restless mind Darkened an anxious brow, Which furrows deep had lined.

He rose and left the hall, The night was drear and wild— Above the embattled wall Tempestuous clouds were piled.

Deep in the deeper gloom, He held his sullen way— To David's hallowed tomb To where his ashes lay.

The haughty monarch came,— Earth trembled at his tread— With sacrilegious aim To rob the royal dead.

No treasures found he there, Nor precious gems, nor gold— The walls were damp and bare— The region drear and cold.

He cast his anxious eye Where slept great David's son, Where Wisdom's ashes lie, The peerless Solomon!

He raised his ruthless arm Against the low-arched wall— While wild and dread alarm Rang through the vaulted hall.

Loud on the monarch's ear Broke the hoarse thunder's crash— And blazed around the bier The vivid lightning's flash.

Death came upon the blast; As by the lurid light They saw that he had passed, And triumphed in his might:

For on the chilly ground, Inanimate as clay, The troubled monarch found His favourite captains lay.

Aghast and pale he fled,— And shook through every limb— Cold drops rolled down his head, Lest death should follow him!

He raised a marble fane Upon the hallowed spot, But ne'er, O ne'er again Could that night be forgot!

And oft in after years He woke in wild affright, And wailed, with scalding tears, The deed of that dread night!

WOMAN.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

AN APOLOGUE.

BY G. P. MORRIS.

Two children, "once upon a time," In the summer season, Woke to life—the one was Rhyme, The other's name was Reason. Sweet Poesy enraptured prest The blooming infants to her breast.

Reason's face and form to see Made her heart rejoice; Yet there was more of melody In Rhyme's delicious voice; But both were beautiful and fair, And pure as mountain stream and air.

As the boys together grew, Happy fled their hours— Grief or care they never knew In the Paphian bowers. See them roaming, hand in hand, The pride of all the choral band.

Music with harp of golden strings, Love with bow and quiver, Airy sprites on radiant wings, Nymphs of wood and river, Joined the Muses' constant song As Rhyme and Reason pass'd along.

But the scene was changed—the boys Left their native soil— Rhyme's pursuit was idle joys, Reason's manly toil. Soon Rhyme was starving in a ditch, While Reason grew exceeding rich.

Since that dark and fatal hour When the brothers parted, Reason has had wealth and power— Rhyme's poor and broken-hearted. And now, on bright or stormy weather, They twain are seldom seen together.

AHNO! AHNO!

To a Favourite Child.

BY JAMES NACK.

In life, perhaps, thou hast only trod As yet in a path as soft and sweet As the flowerets wreathed on a verdant sod, Which bend to the pressure of delicate feet. In the path thou hast only begun to tread, Perhaps no thorn has betrayed its sting; And the clouds that brood there too oft have fled, By innocence chased on her snow-white wing: For often a paradise seems to attend Our earliest steps in this world below; But ah! will that paradise bloom to the end? Stern destiny answers, "Ah No! Ah No!"

The tree with verdure adorns the shore While the laving spray at its foot is thrown; But the waves roll on to return no more, And the tree stands withering all alone. Each friend of our early years is a wave In the sea of joy we are flourishing by; But they roll away to the gulf of the grave, And our hearts in loneliness withering sigh. And such is the doom I must bear—for now, While yet in my boyhood I find it so— But never, dear cherub, may heaven allow Such doom to await thee, Ah No! Ah No!

A HEALTH.

BY MISS ELIZABETH C. CLINCH.

Ob. 1832: Æt. 17.

Fill high the cup!—the young and gay Are met with bounding hearts to-night; And sunny smiles around us play, And eyes are sparkling bright: Let wit and song the hours beguile, But yet, amid this festal cheer, Oh, let us pause to think awhile Of him who is not here.

Fill high the cup!—yet ere its brim One young and smiling lip has pressed, Oh, pledge each sparkling drop to him Now far o'er ocean's breast! The cordial wish each lip repeats, By every heart is echoed here; For none within this circle beats, To whom he is not dear.

A sudden pause in festive glee— What thought hath hushed the thought of mirth, Hath checked each heart's hilarity, And given to sadness birth? O! read it in the shades that steal Across each animated brow; The wish none utters, yet all feel, "Would he were with us now!"

Yet chase away each vain regret, And let each heart be gay; Trust me, the meeting hour shall yet Each anxious thought repay. Is not his spirit with us now? Yes! wheresoe'er his footsteps roam, The wanderer's yearning heart can know No resting-place—but home!

Then smile again, and let the song Pour forth its music sweet and clear— What magic to those notes belong Which thus chain every ear! Soft eyes are filled with tears—what spell So suddenly hath called them there? That strain—ah, yes! we know it well; It is his favourite air.

With every note how forcibly Return the thoughts of other days! The shaded brow, the drooping eye, Are present to our gaze. With all around his looks are blent; His form, is it not gliding there? And was it not his voice which sent That echo on the air?

One wish, with cordial feeling fraught, Breathe we for him ere yet we part, That for each high and generous thought That animates his heart, That Power which gives us happiness, A blessing on his head would pour! Oh! could affection wish him less? Yet, could we ask for more?

A HYMN.

BY DAVID S. BOGART.—1791.

Almighty King, who reign'st above, Thou art the source of purest love; The splendid heavens thy glories show, Thy wisdom shines in all below; Seraphs before thee humbly fall, Acknowledge thee supreme o'er all; And, wrapt in high transporting joy, Thy attributes their thoughts employ. Shall mortals, then, refuse to join In works so heavenly and divine, Mortals who live and move in thee, And thy continual goodness see; Thou God of Grace, make it my choice In praising thee, to lend my voice; Implant thy fear, infuse thy balm, And make my troubled soul all calm; Teach me the duty of my life, Preserve me from unhappy strife, Conduct me safe through all my days, And keep me in thy peaceful ways. When time is done, and death draws nigh, Then leave me not alone to sigh; Afford thy grace, and cheer my heart, And, sure of heaven, let me depart.

REMINISCENCES.

BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

Oh, who would flee the melody Of woodland, grove, and stream— The hoar cliff pencill'd on the sky By morning's virgin beam; To wander 'mid the busy throng That threads each city's street, Where cank'ring care and folly's glare In unblest union meet?

Emilia! o'er the fleeting hours Thy smile once bathed in light, Fond memory hovers pensively, And joins them in their flight; And lovelier far than sunset's glow, By rainbow beauties spann'd, Comes o'er my soul the joys we stole When first I press'd thy hand.

The south wind, on its joyous way, Came fraught with balmier breath, And frolic life, in thousand forms, Laugh'd at the conqueror Death! Sweet Echo, from the sparry caves, Re-tuned the shepherd's song; And bird and bee, in reckless glee, Pour'd melody along.

The wind-stirr'd grove still prints its shade Upon the streamlet's breast, The red bird, on the chesnut bough, Re-builds its fairy nest; But through the thicket's leafy screen Fancy alone can trace The sparkling eye—the vermeil dye That mantled o'er thy face.

Though since that hour, upon my path Are graven hopes and fears, And transient smiles, like April beams, Have gilded sorrow's tears; From those flushed hopes and feverish joys, My soul with rapture flies To the sweet grove, where faith and love Beamed from Emilia's eyes!

Then woo me not to sculptured halls, Where pride and beauty throng; Far lovelier is my mountain-home, The wild-wood paths among; And though the hopes by boyhood nursed Have vanish'd like the dew, In Memory's light they bless my sight With charms for ever new.

ELEGIAC LINES.

BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.

While you, my friend, with tearful eye, These soft elegiac lines read o'er, And while you heave the tender sigh For lov'd Amanda now no more.

This lesson from her tear-dew'd urn, Where conscious worth, where virtue bleeds, This lesson from Amanda learn,— That death, nor worth, nor virtue heeds.

That he alike his ruthless reign Does o'er each age, each sex, extend, That he ne'er heeds the lover's pain, Ne'er heeds the anguish of a friend.

But in the height of Beauty's bloom, Each dear connexion of the heart, He points them to the gloomy tomb, He bids them—and they must depart.

A SONG OF MAY.

BY W. G. CLARK.

The Spring's scented buds all around me are swelling— There are songs in the stream—there is health in the gale; A sense of delight in each bosom is dwelling, As float the pure day-dreams o'er mountain and vale; The desolate reign of old winter is broken— The verdure is fresh upon every tree; Of Nature's revival the charm,—and a token Of love, oh thou Spirit of Beauty! to thee.

The sun looketh forth from the halls of the morning, And flushes the clouds that begirt his career; He welcomes the gladness and glory, returning To rest on the promise and hope of the year. He fills with rich light all the balm-breathing flowers— He mounts to the zenith and laughs on the wave; He wakes into music the green forest-bowers, And gilds the gay plains which the broad rivers lave.

The young bird is out on his delicate pinion— He timidly sails in the infinite sky; A greeting to May, and her fairy dominion, He pours, on the west-wind's fragrant sigh: Around, above, there are peace and pleasure— The woodlands are singing—the heaven is bright; The fields are unfolding their emerald treasure, And man's genial spirit is soaring in light.

Alas, for my weary and care-haunted bosom!— The spells of the spring-time arouse it no more; The song in the wild-wood—the sheen of the blossom— The fresh-welling fountain,—their magic is o'er! When I list to the streams—when I look on the flowers, They tell of the past with so mournful a tone, That I call up the throngs of my long-vanished hours, And sigh that their transports are over and gone.

From the wide-spreading earth—from the limitless heaven, There have vanished an eloquent glory and gleam; To my veil'd mind no more is the influence given, Which coloureth life with the hues of a dream: The bloom-purpled landscape its loveliness keepeth— I deem that a light as of old gilds the wave;— But the eye of my spirit in heaviness sleepeth, Or sees but my youth, and the visions it gave.

Yet it is not that age on my years hath descended— 'Tis not that its snow-wreaths encircle my brow; But the newness and sweetness of Being are ended— I feel not their love-kindling witchery now: The shadows of death o'er my path have been sweeping— There are those who have loved me, debarred from the day; The green turf is bright where in peace they are sleeping, And on wings of remembrance my soul is away.

It is shut to the glow of this present existence— It hears, from the past, a funereal strain; And it eagerly turns to the high-seeming distance, Where the last blooms of earth will be garnered again; Where no mildew the soft, damask-rose cheek shall nourish— Where Grief bears no longer the poisonous sting; Where pitiless Death no dark sceptre can flourish, Or stain with his blight the luxuriant spring.

It is thus, that the hopes, which to others are given, Fall cold on my heart in this rich month of May; I hear the clear anthems that ring through the heaven— I drink the bland airs that enliven the day; And if gentle Nature, her festival keeping, Delights not my bosom, ah! do not condemn;— O'er the lost and the lovely my spirit is weeping, For my heart's fondest raptures are buried with them.

ON READING VIRGIL.

BY MRS. ANN E. BLEECKER.

Written in 1778.

Now, cease these tears, lay gentle Virgil by, Let recent sorrows dim thy pausing eye; Shall Æneas for lost Creusa mourn, And tears be wanting on Abella's urn? Like him, I lost my fair one in my flight From cruel foes, and in the dead of night. Shall he lament the fall of Ilion's tow'rs, And we not mourn the sudden ruin of ours? See York on fire—while, borne by winds, each flame Projects its glowing sheet o'er half the main, The affrighted savage, yelling with amaze, From Allegany sees the rolling blaze. Far from these scenes of horror, in the shade I saw my aged parent safe conveyed; Then sadly followed to the friendly land With my surviving infant by the hand: No cumbrous household gods had I, indeed, To load my shoulders and my flight impede; Protection from such impotence who'd claim? My Gods took care of me—not I of them. The Trojan saw Anchises breathe his last When all domestic dangers he had passed; So my lov'd parent, after she had fled, Lamented, perish'd on a stranger's bed: —He held his way o'er the Cerulian main, But I returned to hostile fields again.

THE LAST PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

BY W. G. CLARK.

"O Domini Deus speravi in te, O caru mi Jesu nunc libera me: In dura catena, in misera pena, Desidera te— Languendo, gemando, et genuflectendo, Adoro, imploro, ut liberas me!" [P]

It was the holy twilight hour, when clouds of crimson glide Along the calm blue firmament, hushed in the evening tide; When the peasant's cheerful song was hushed, by every hill and glen, When the city's voice stole faintly out, and died the hum of men; And as Night's sombre shade came down o'er Day's resplendant eye, A faded face, from prison cell, gazed out upon the sky; For to that face the glad, bright sun of earth for aye had set, And the last time had come, to mark eve's starry coronet.

Oh, who can paint the bitter thoughts that o'er her spirit stole, As her pale lips gave utterance to feeling's deep controul— When shadowed from life's vista back, throng'd 'mid her bursting tears, The phantasies of early hope—dreams of departed years; When Pleasure's light was sprinkled, and silver voices flung Their rich and echoing cadences her virgin hours among— When there came no shadow o'er her brow, no tear to dim her eye, When there frown'd no cloud of sorrow in her being's festal sky.

Perchance at that lone hour the thought of early visions came, Of the trance that touched her lip with song at Love's mysterious flame; When she listened to the low-breathed tones of him the idol one, Who shone in her mind's imagings first ray of pleasure's sun; Perchance the walk in evening's hour, the impassion'd kiss and vow— The warm tear kindling on the cheek, the smile upon the brow: But they came like flowers that wither, and the light of all had fled, Like a hue from April's pinion o'er earth's budding bosom shed.

And thus as star came after star into the boundless heaven, Were her free thoughts and eloquent in pensive numbers given; They were the offerings of a heart where grief had long held sway, And now the night, the hour had come, to give her feelings way; It was the last dim night of life—the sun had sunk to rest, And the blue twilight haze had crept on the far mountain's breast; And thus, as in her saddened heart the tide of love grew strong, Poured her meek, quiet spirit forth this flood of mournful song:

"The shades of evening gather now o'er the mysterious earth, The viewless winds are whispering their strains of breezy mirth; The yellow moon hath come to shed a flood of glory round On the silence of this calm repose, the beauty of the ground; And in the free, sweet, gales that sweep along my prison bar, Seem borne the soft, deep harmonies of every kindly star; I see the blue streams dancing in the mild and chastened light, And the gem-lit fleecy clouds that steal along the brow of night.

"Oh, must I leave existence now, while life is in its spring— While Joy should cheer my pilgrimage with gladness from his wing? Are the songs of Hope for ever flown?—the syren voice which flung The chant of Youth's warm happiness from the beguiler's tongue? Shall I drink no more the melody of babbling stream or bird, Or the scented gales of Summer, when the leaves of June are stirred? Shall the pulse of love wax fainter; and the spirit shrink from death, As the bud-like thoughts which lit my heart fade in its chilling breath?

"I have passed the dreams of childhood, and my loves and hopes are gone, And I turn to Thee, Redeemer, oh, thou blest and holy one! Though the rose of health has vanished, and the mandate hath been spoken, And one by one the golden links of life's fond chain are broken, Yet can my spirit turn to thee, thou chastener, and can bend In humble suppliance at thy feet, my Father and my Friend! Thou who hast crowned my youth with hope, my early days with glee, Give me the eagle's fearless wing—the dove's to mount to thee!

"I lose my foolish hold on life, its passions and its tears— How brief the golden ecstacies of its young, careless years! I give my heart to earth no more—the grave may clasp me now— The winds, whose tones I loved, may play in the dim cypress bough; The birds, the streams are eloquent, yet I shall pass away, And in the light of heaven shake off this cumbrous load of clay; I shall join the lost and loved of earth, and meet each kindred breast, 'Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'"

THE RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PEOPLE.

[From the French of Beranger.]

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

They'll talk of him, and of his glory, The cottage hearth, at eve, around; Fifty years hence no other story Shall 'neath the lowly thatch resound. Then shall the villagers repair To some gray ancient dame, And bid her long-past times declare, And tell his deeds, his fame. "Ah, though it cost us life and limb," They'll say, "our love is still the same, And still the people love his name; Good mother, tell of him!"

My children, through this very region He journey'd with a train of kings, Followed by many a gallant legion! (How many thoughts to me it brings, That tell of days so long gone by!) He climbed on foot the very hill Where, seated on the bank, was I To see him pass. I see him still; The small, three-coloured hat he wore, And the surtout of gray. I trembled at his sight all o'er!— Cheerful he said, "My dear, good day!" "Mother, he spoke to you, you say?" "Ay, said 'good day' once more."

Next year at Paris, too, one morning, Myself, I saw him with his court, Princes and queens his suite adorning, To Notre Dame he did resort; And every body blest the day And prayed for him and his; How happily he took his way, And smiled in all a father's bliss, For heaven a son bestowed!" "A happy day for you was this, Good mother!" then they say: "When thus you saw him on the road, In Notre Dame to kneel and pray, A good heart sure it showed."

"Alas! ere long, invading strangers Brought death and ruin in our land! (Alone he stood and braved all dangers, The sword in his unconquer'd hand.) One night, (it seems but yesterday,) I heard a knocking at the door— It was himself upon his way, A few true followers, no more, Stood worn and weary at his side. Where I am sitting now he sat— 'Oh what a war is this!' he cried. Oh what a war!'" "Mother, how's that? Did he, then, sit in that same chair?" "My children, yes!—he rested there!"

"I'm hungry," then he said, "and gladly I brought him country wine and bread; The gray surtout was dripping sadly; He dried it by this fire. His head, He leaned against this wall, and slept— While, as for me, I sat and wept. He waked and cried, 'Be of good cheer! I go to Paris, France to free, And better times, be sure, are near!' He went, and I have ever kept The cup he drank from—children, see! My greatest treasure!" "Show it me," "And me!"—"and me!" the listeners cry— "Good mother, keep it carefully!"

"Ah, it is safe! but where is he? Crowned by the pope, our father good, In a lone island of the sea The hero died. Long time we stood Firm in belief he was not dead, And some by sea, and some by land— But all, that he was coming, said. And when, at length, all hope was o'er, Than I, were few that sorrowed more!" "Ah, mother, well we understand! Our blessings on you; we too weep, We will pray for you ere we sleep!"

THE HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE, ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

BY JOHN INMAN.

Nay, ask me not, my dearest! why silent I remain— Not often will my feelings speak in smooth and measured strain. The joy that fills my heart, in the love I bear to thee, Too deeply in that heart is shrined, by words expressed to be; And thousand thoughts of tenderness, that in my bosom throng, Are all too bright and blessed to be manacled in song. This is thy birth-day, dearest—the fairest of the year— To many giving gladness, but to me of all most dear; The birth-day of my happiness, which sprang to life with thee, As hope springs in the captive's breast with the hour that sets him free. I hail its happy dawning, with a love like that which fills My heart for thee, my pure one, when thy kind voice in it thrills. I bless it and its memories, and the blessing which I give, Is fervent as the dying man's to him who bids him live— But the joy I have in thee, dear love, speaks not in echoes loud, Nor will its tranquil flowing be revealed before a crowd.

VERSES

TO THE MEMORY OF COL. WOOD OF THE UNITED STATES' ARMY,

WHO FELL AT THE SORTIE OF ERIE.

BY THE LATE GEN. J. MORTON.

What though on foeman's land he fell, No stone the sacred spot to tell, Yet where the noble Hudson's waves Its shores of lofty granite laves, The loved associates of his youth, Who knew his worth—his spotless truth, Have bade the marble column rise, To bid the world that worth to prize; To teach the youth like him aspire, And never-fading fame acquire; Like him on Glory's wings to rise, To reach, to pierce the azure skies. And oft the Patriot there will sigh, And Sorrow oft cloud Beauty's eye, Whene'er fond memory brings again The Youth who sleeps on Erie's plain.

LIFE'S GUIDING STAR.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

The youth whose bark is guided o'er A summer stream by zephyr's breath, With idle gaze delights to pore On imaged skies that glow beneath. But should a fleeting storm arise To shade awhile the watery way, Quick lifts to heaven his anxious eyes, And speeds to reach some sheltering bay.

'Tis thus down time's eventful tide, While prosperous breezes gently blow, In life's frail bark we gaily glide Our hopes, our thoughts all fixed below. But let one cloud the prospect dim, The wind its quiet stillness mar, At once we raise our prayer to Him Whose light is life's best guiding star.

DESPONDENCY.

WRITTEN IN DEJECTION AND SORROW FOR LOST TIME.

BY JOHN INMAN.

Whence come, my soul, these gloomy dreams, That darken thus my waking hours? And whence this blighting cloud, that seems To wither all thy better powers? What is this cankering worm that clings Around my heart with deadly strain, That o'er my thoughts its mildew flings, And makes my life one age of pain?

I find no joy in home or friends— E'en music's voice has lost its spell— To me the rose no perfume lends, And mirth and I have said farewell. I dare not think upon the past, Where dwells remembrance, fraught with pain; Of youth's pure joys that could not last, And hopes I ne'er shall know again.

I dare not ask the coming years What gifts their onward flight shall bring; For what but grief, and shame, and tears, From wasted time and powers can spring? Yet I can deck my cheek with smiles, And teach my heart to seem to glow, Though colder than those Northern isles Of ice and everlasting snow.

Upon the frozen surface there, With tenfold light the sunbeams play— But false the dazzling gleam as fair— No verdure springs beneath the ray. And falser yet the laughing eye— The cheek that wears a seeming smile— The heart that hides its misery, And breaks beneath its load the while.

TO A GOLDFINCH.

BY ROSWELL PARK.

Bird of the gentle wing, Songster of air, Home, from thy wandering, Dost thou repair? Art thou deserted then, Wilder'd and lone? Come to my breast again, Beautiful one.

Here in the rosy beds Hover anew; Eating the garden seeds, Sipping the dew: Then in my bower The fragrance inhale Of each lovely flower That waves in the gale.

When the bright morning star, Rising on high, Day's early harbinger, Shines in the sky, Then shall thy numbers, So lively and gay, Rouse me from slumbers, To welcome the day.

When the still evening comes, Tranquil and clear; When the dull beetle roams, Drumming the air; Then, on the willow-trees Shading the door, Sing me thy melodies Over once more.

Thus shall the moments fly Sweetly along, Tuned to thy minstrelsy, Cheered by thy song; Till as the light declines Far in the west, Thou, 'mid the trellis'd vines, Hush thee to rest.

THE MIDNIGHT BALL.

BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.

She's bid adieu to the midnight ball, And cast the gems aside, Which glittered in the lighted hall: Her tears she cannot hide. She weeps not that the dance is o'er, The music and the song; She weeps not that her steps no more Are follow'd by the throng.

Her memory seeks one form alone Within that crowded hall; Her truant thoughts but dwell on one At that gay midnight ball. And thence her tears unbidden flow— She's bid adieu to him; The light of love is darken'd now— All other lights are dim.

She throws the worthless wreath away That deck'd her shining hair; She tears apart the bright bouquet Of flowrets rich and rare. The leaves lie scattered at her feet, She heeds not where they fall; She sees in them an emblem meet To mark the midnight-ball.

THE DESERTED BRIDE.

[Suggested by a Scene in the Play of the Hunchback.]

BY G. P. MORRIS.

"Love me!—No—he never loved me!" Else he'd sooner die than stain One so fond as he has proved me With the hollow world's disdain. False one, go—my doom is spoken, And the spell that bound me broken!

Wed him!—Never.—He has lost me!— Tears!—Well, let them flow!—His bride?— No.—The struggle life may cost me! But he'll find that I have pride! Love is not an idle flower, Blooms and dies the self-same hour.

Titles, lands, and broad dominion, With himself to me he gave; Stoop'd to earth his spirit's pinion, And became my willing slave! Knelt and pray'd until he won me— Looks he coldly now upon me?

Ingrate!—Never sure was maiden Wronged so foul as I. With grief My true breast is overladen— Tears afford me no relief.— Every nerve is strained and aching, And my very heart is breaking!

Love I him?—Thus scorned and slighted— Thrown, like worthless weed, apart— Hopes and feelings sear'd and blighted— Love him?—Yes, with all my heart! With a passion superhuman— Constancy, "thy name is woman."

Love nor time, nor mood, can fashion— Love?—Idolatry's the word To speak the broadest, deepest passion, Ever woman's heart hath stirr'd! Vain to still the mind's desires, Which consume like hidden fires!

Wreck'd and wretched, lost and lonely, Crush'd by grief's oppressive weight, With a prayer for Clifford only, I resign me to my fate. Chains that bind the soul I've proven Strong as they were iron-woven.

Deep the wo that fast is sending From my cheek its healthful bloom; Sad my thoughts, as willows bending O'er the borders of the tomb. Without Clifford not a blessing In the world is worth possessing.

Wealth!—a straw within the balance, Opposed to love 'twill kick the beam: Kindred—friendship—beauty—talents?— All to love as nothing seem; Weigh love against all else together, As solid gold against a feather.

Hope is flown—away disguises— Nought but death relief can give— For the love he little prizes Cannot cease and Julia live! Soon my thread of life will sever— Clifford, fare thee well—for ever!

THOUGHTS AT THE GRAVE OF A DEPARTED FRIEND.

BY JOHN INMAN.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

A careless, simple bird, one day Flutt'ring in Flora's bowers, Fell in a cruel trap, which lay All hid among the flowers, Forsooth, the pretty, harmless flowers.

The spring was closed; poor, silly soul, He knew not what to do, Till, squeezing through a tiny hole, At length away he flew, Unhurt—at length away he flew.

And now from every fond regret And idle anguish free, He, singing, says, "You need not set Another trap for me, False girl! another trap for me."

ANACREONTIC.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

Blame not the Bowl—the fruitful Bowl! Whence wit, and mirth, and music spring, And amber drops elysian roll, To bathe young Love's delighted wing. What like the grape Osiris gave Makes rigid age so lithe of limb? Illumines Memory's tearful wave, And teaches drowning Hope to swim? Did Ocean from his radiant arms To earth another Venus give, He ne'er could match the mellow charms That in the breathing beaker live.

Like burning thoughts which lovers hoard In characters that mock the sight, Till some kind liquid, o'er them poured, Brings all their hidden warmth to light— Are feelings bright, which, in the cup, Though graven deep, appear but dim, Till filled with glowing Bacchus up, They sparkle on the foaming brim. Each drop upon the first you pour Brings some new tender thought to life, And as you fill it more and more, The last with fervid soul is rife.

The island fount, that kept of old Its fabled path beneath the sea, And fresh, as first from earth it rolled, From earth again rose joyously; Bore not beneath the bitter brine, Each flower upon its limpid tide, More faithfully than in the wine, Our hearts will toward each other glide. Then drain the cup, and let thy soul Learn, as the draught delicious flies, Like pearls in the Egyptian's bowl, Truth beaming at the bottom lies.

MELODY.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

If yon bright stars, which gem the night, Be each a blissful dwelling sphere, Where kindred spirits re-unite Whom death has torn asunder here, How sweet it were at once to die, And leave this blighted orb afar, Mixt soul and soul to cleave the sky, And soar away from star to star.

But oh, how dark, how drear and lone, Would seem the brightest world of bliss, If wandering through each radiant one We failed to find the loved of this; If there no more the ties shall twine That death's cold hand alone could sever; Ah! then these stars in mockery shine, More hateful as they shine for ever.

It cannot be each hope, each fear, That lights the eye or clouds the brow, Proclaims there is a happier sphere Than this bleak world that holds us now. There is a voice which sorrow hears, When heaviest weighs life's galling chain; 'Tis heaven that whispers—Dry thy tears, The pure in heart shall meet again.

MY NATIVE LAND.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

Columbia, was thy continent stretched wild, In later ages, the huge seas above? And art thou Nature's youngest, fairest child, Most favoured by thy gentle mother's love? Where now we stand, did ocean monsters rove, Tumbling uncouth, in those dim, vanish'd years, When, through the Red Sea, Pharaoh's thousands drove, When struggling Joseph dropped fraternal tears, When God came down from heaven, and mortal men were seers?

Or, have thy forests waved, thy rivers run, Elysian solitudes, untrod by man, Silent and lonely, since, around the sun, Her ever-wheeling circle, earth began? Thy unseen flowers, did here the breezes fan? With wasted perfume ever on them flung? And o'er thy show'rs, neglected rainbows span, When Alexander fought, when Homer sung, And the old populous world with thundering battle rung?

Yet what to me, or when, or how thy birth, No musty tomes are here to tell of thee; None know, if cast when nature first the earth Shaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower, and tree, Or, whether since, by changes, silently, Of sand and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew; Or if, before man's little memory, Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two, And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw.

I know but that I love thee. On my heart, Like a dear friend's, are stamped thy features now; Though there, the Roman, or the Grecian art Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow, No broken temples, fain at length to bow, Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of time. Not these, o'er thee, their mystic splendours throw; Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme, As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime.

But thou art sternly artless, wildly free: We worship thee for beauties all thine own. Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be Admired, but only for herself alone. With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown. No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise; Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies.

I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams. Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast. Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems Thy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest! Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon; Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd; Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun— Would through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run!

And lo! the Catskills print the distant sky; And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven, So softly blending, that the cheated eye Forgets, or which is earth or which is heaven— Sometimes, like thunder clouds, they shade the even, Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height Puts off the azure hues by distance given; And slowly break, upon the enamour'd sight, Ravine, crag, field and wood, in colours true and bright.

Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below Spreads the vast Champaign like a shoreless sea. Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, At break of day, this scene, when, silently, Its map of field, wood, hamlet is unroll'd, While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold,

Till earth receive him never can forget. Even when returned amid the city's roar, The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. Imagination cons the moment o'er, When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed. Scarce loftier, Jove—whom men and gods adore— On the extended earth beneath him gazed, Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised.

Blow, scented gale—the snowy canvass swell, And flow, thou silver, eddying current on. Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell, That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone. By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn, By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise, At every turn, the vision breaks upon, Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise,

Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul! The pent-up flood, impatient of control, In ages past, here broke its granite bound; Then to the sea, in broad meanders, stole; While ponderous ruins strewed the broken ground, And these gigantic hills for ever closed around.

And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, The nymph of sportive mockery, that still Hides behind every rock, in every dell, And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill. No sound doth rise, but mimic it she will, The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er.

Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired. Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide, The Briton youth, lamented and admired, His country's hope, her ornament and pride, A traitor's death, ingloriously died, On freedom's altar offered; in the sight Of God, by men who will their act abide, On the great day, and hold their deed aright, To stop the breath would quench young Freedom's holy light.

But see! the broadening river deeper flows, Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea, While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws Its softening hues on stream, and field and tree; All silent nature bathing, wondrously, In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires, And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see, Till lo! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires, Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires.

May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene. Of thy vast throngs, now faintly comes the roar, Though late like beating-ocean surf I ween— And every where thy various barks are seen, Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow, Encircled by thy banks of sunny green— The panting steamer plying to and fro, Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow.

And radiantly upon the glittering mass, The God of day his parting glances sends, As some warm soul, from earth about to pass, Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends, Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends, More bright and bright, as near their end they be. On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends, Each land irradiate, and every sea— But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee!

HE CAME TOO LATE!

BY MISS ELIZABETH BOGART.

He came too late!—Neglect had tried Her constancy too long; Her love had yielded to her pride, And the deep sense of wrong. She scorned the offering of a heart Which, lingered on its way, Till it could no delight impart, Nor spread one cheering ray.

He came too late!—At once he felt That all his power was o'er! Indifference in her calm smile dwelt, She thought of him no more. Anger and grief had passed away, Her heart and thoughts were free; She met him, and her words were gay, No spell had memory.

He came too late!—The subtle chords Of love were all unbound, Not by offence of spoken words, But by the slights that wound. She knew that life held nothing now That could the past repay, Yet she disdained his tardy vow, And coldly turned away.

He came too late!—Her countless dreams Of hope had long since flown; No charms dwelt in his chosen themes, Nor in his whispered tone. And when, with word and smile, he tried Affection still to prove, She nerved her heart with woman's pride, And spurned his fickle love.

VERSES,

WRITTEN IN A BOOK OF FORTUNES, 1787.

BY THE LATE GEN. MORTON.

As through the garden's sweet domain The bee from leaf to leaf will rove, Will cull its sweets with anxious pain, Then bear its treasures to his love; So from those leaves which bring to view Things hid by fate in Time's dark reign, With care I'd cull, dear girl, for you, The richest blessings they contain; But fortune here our power restrains, Nor leaves her blessings in our hand: To wish, alone to us remains, The Gift is still at her command.

Take, then, sweet maid, this wish sincere, Which in a friendly heart doth glow— A heart which will thy worth revere Till life's rich streams shall cease to flow: On the fair morning of thy life May love beam forth his brightest ray,— May friendship's joys, unvexed by strife, Glad the meridian of thy day; And when life's solemn eve shall come, And time to you shall ever cease, May then religion cheer the gloom, And light thy path to endless peace.

EPITAPH UPON A DOG.

BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

An ear that caught my slightest tone In kindness or in anger spoken; An eye that ever watch'd my own In vigils death alone has broken; Its changeless, ceaseless, and unbought Affection to the last revealing; Beaming almost with human thought, And more than human feeling!

Can such in endless sleep be chilled, And mortal pride disdain to sorrow, Because the pulse that here was stilled May wake to no immortal morrow? Can faith, devotedness, and love, That seem to humbler creatures given To tell us what we owe above! The types of what is due to Heaven?

Can these be with the things that were, Things cherished—but no more returning; And leave behind no trace of care, No shade that speaks a moment's mourning? Alas! my friend, of all of worth, That years have stol'n or years yet leave me, I've never known so much on earth, But that the loss of thine must grieve me.

LINES FOR MUSIC.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

Over forest and meadow the night breeze is stealing, The blush of the sunset is glowing no more— And the stream which we love, harmless fires revealing, With ripples of silver is kissing the shore. I have watched from the beach which your presence enchanted, In the star-lighted heaven each beautiful gem, And I sighed as I thought, ere the break of the morning, From the gaze of my eyes you must vanish like them. Then stay where the night breeze o'er flowers is stealing, And raise your young voices in music once more; Let them blend with the stream, its soft murmurs revealing In the ripples of silver which roll to the shore.

But when summer has fled, and yon flowers have faded, And the fields and the forests are withered and sere— When the friends now together, by distance are parted, Leaving nothing but winter and loneliness here; Will you think of the hour, when in friendship united, I lingered at evening to bid you adieu; When I paused by the stream, with the stars so delighted, And wished I might linger for ever with you? Oh, forget not the time when that night breeze was stealing, Though desolate oceans between us may roar, The beach—and the stars—and the waters revealing Thoughts bright as the ripples which break on the shore.

STANZAS.

BY JOHN INMAN.

L'amour ne suffit pas au bonheur; les richesses y font aussi beaucoup de cas, et parfois sans les richesses, l'amour ne produit que la misÈre. C'est grand dommage, mais c'est vrai. —Madame de Beaumarchais.

Alas! alas, that poverty's cold hand Should come to wither young affection's flowers— Marring the fairy pictures hope has planned Of love and joy in future happy hours— Alas, that all the blessings fancy showers O'er the young heart, should turn to grief and tears, Poisoning the cup of life through all our after-years!

A moment's pleasure and an age of pain— One hour of sunshine, and the rest all gloom— And this, oh Love, is what from thee we gain— Of all who bow before thee, this the doom— And in thy footsteps, like the dread Zamoom, Pale sorrow comes, a longer-dwelling guest, To curse the wasted heart that once by thee was blest.

JOSHUA COMMANDING THE SUN AND MOON TO STAND STILL.

BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.

The day rose clear on Gibeon. Her high towers Flash'd the red sun-beams gloriously back, And the wind-driven banners, and the steel Of her ten thousand spears caught dazzlingly The sun, and on the fortresses of rock Play'd a soft glow, that as a mockery seem'd To the stern men who girded by its light. Beth-Horon in the distance slept, and breath Was pleasant in the vale of Ajalon, Where armed heels trod carelessly the sweet Wild spices, and the trees of gum were shook By the rude armour on their branches hung. Suddenly in the camp without the walls Rose a deep murmur, and the men of war Gather'd around their kings, and "Joshua! From Gilgal, Joshua!" was whisper'd low, As with a secret fear, and then, at once, With the abruptness of a dream, he stood Upon the rock before them. Calmly then Raised he his helm, and with his temples bare And hands uplifted to the sky, he pray'd;— "God of this people, hear! and let the sun Stand upon Gibeon, still; and let the moon Rest in the vale of Ajalon!" He ceased— And lo! the moon sits motionless, and earth Stands on her axis indolent. The sun Pours the unmoving column of his rays In undiminish'd heat; the hours stand still; The shade hath stopp'd upon the dial's face; The clouds and vapours that at night are wont To gather and enshroud the lower earth, Are struggling with strange rays, breaking them up, Scattering the misty phalanx like a wand, Glancing o'er mountain tops, and shining down In broken masses on the astonish'd plains. The fever'd cattle group in wondering herds; The weary birds go to their leafy nests, But find no darkness there, and wander forth On feeble, fluttering wing, to find a rest; The parch'd, baked earth, undamp'd by usual dews, Has gaped and crack'd, and heat, dry, mid-day heat, Comes like a drunkard's breath upon the heart. On with thy armies, Joshua! The Lord God of Sabaoth is the avenger now! His voice is in the thunder, and his wrath Poureth the beams of the retarded sun, With the keen strength of arrows, on their sight. The unwearied sun rides in the zenith sky; Nature, obedient to her Maker's voice, Stops in full course all her mysterious wheels. On! till avenging swords have drunk the blood Of all Jehovah's enemies, and till Thy banners in returning triumph wave; Then yonder orb shall set 'mid golden clouds, And, while a dewy rain falls soft on earth, Show in the heavens the glorious bow of God, Shining, the rainbow banner of the skies.

SONG.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

I trust the frown thy features wear Ere long into a smile will turn; I would not that a face so fair As thine, beloved, should look so stern. The chain of ice that winter twines, Holds not for aye the sparkling rill, It melts away when summer shines, And leaves the waters sparkling still. Thus let thy cheek resume the smile That shed such sunny light before; And though I left thee for a while, I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.

As he who, doomed o'er waves to roam, Or wander on a foreign strand, Will sigh whene'er he thinks of home, And better love his native land; So I, though lured a time away, Like bees by varied sweets, to rove, Return, like bees, by close of day, And leave them all for thee, my love. Then let thy cheek resume the smile That shed such sunny light before, And though I left thee for a while, I'll swear to leave thee, love, no more.

WEST POINT.

[Suggested by the attendance on Public Worship of the Cadets.—June, 1833.]

BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

Bugles upon the wind! Hushed voices in the air, And the solemn roll of the stirring drum, Proclaim the hour of prayer; While, with measured tread and downcast eye The martial train sweep silent by!

Away with the nodding plume, And the glittering bayonet now, For unmeet it were, with bannered pomp, To record the sacred vow. To earth-born strife let display be given, But the heart's meek homage alone to heaven.

The organ's mellow notes Come swelling on the breeze, And, echoing forth from arch to dome, Float richest symphonies! While youthful forms, a sunny throng, With their voices deep the strains prolong!

Deserted now the aisles— Devotion's rites are past; And again the bugle's cheering peals Are ringing on the blast! Come forth, ye brave, for your country now, With your flashing eyes and your lofty brow!

A voice from the glorious dead! Awake to the call of fame! By yon gorgeous banner's spangled folds, And by Kosciusko's name! And on Putnam's fort by the light that falls On its ivied moat and its ruined walls,

The wave-worn cavern sends Hoarse echoes from the deep, And the patriot call is heard afar From every giant steep! And the young hearts glow with the sacred fires That burned in the breasts of their gallant sires.

The glittering pageant's past, But martial forms are seen, With bounding step and eagle glance, Careering o'er the green; And lovely woman by their side, With her blushing cheek and her eye of pride.

Sunset upon the wave, Its burnished splendours pour, And the bird-like bark with its pinions sweeps Like an arrow from the shore! There are golden locks in the sunbeam, fanned On the mirrored stream by the breezes bland.

They have passed like shadows by That fade in the morning beam, And the sylph-like form, and the laughing eye, Are remembered like a dream; But memory's sun shall set in night Ere my soul forget those forms of light.

THANKSGIVING

AFTER ESCAPE FROM INDIAN PERILS.

BY MRS. ANNE E. BLEECKER.—1778.

Alas! my fond inquiring soul, Doomed in suspense to mourn, Now let thy moments calmly roll, Now let thy peace return. Why should'st thou let a doubt disturb Thy hopes which daily rise, And urge thee on to trust his word, Who built and rules the skies?

When Murder sent her hopeless cries, More dreadful through the gloom, And kindling flames did round thee rise, Deep harvests to consume. Who was it led thee through the wood, And o'er the ensanguined plain, Unseen by ambushed sons of blood, Who track'd thy steps in vain.

'Twas pitying Heaven that check'd my tears, And bade my infants play, To give an opiate to my fears And cheer the lonely way. And in the doubly dreadful night, When my Abella died, When horror-struck—detesting light, I sunk down by her side;

When winged for flight my spirit stood, With this fond thought beguiled, To lead my charmer to her God, And there to claim my child. Again his mercy o'er my breast Effus'd the breath of peace, Subsiding passion sunk to rest, He bade the tempest cease.

Oh, let me ever, ever praise Such undeserved care, Though languid may appear my lays, At least they are sincere. It is my joy that thou art God, Eternal and supreme; Rise, Nature—hail the power aloud, From whom Creation came.

BALLAD.

BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.

"La rose cueillie et le coeur gagnÉ ne plaisent qu'un jour."

The maiden sat at her busy wheel, Her heart was light and free, And ever in cheerful song broke forth Her bosom's harmless glee. Her song was in mockery of love, And oft I heard her say, "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, "Can charm but for a day."

I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek, And her lip so full and bright, And I sighed to think that the traitor love, Should conquer a heart so light: But she thought not of future days of wo, While she carroled in tones so gay; "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, "Can charm but for a day."

A year passed on, and again I stood By the humble cottage-door; The maid sat at her busy wheel, But her look was blithe no more: The big tear stood in her downcast eye, And with sighs I heard her say, "The gathered rose, and the stolen heart, "Can charm but for a day."

Oh! well I knew what had dimmed her eye, And made her cheek so pale; The maid had forgotten her early song, While she listened to love's soft tale. She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, It had wasted her life away: And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, Had charmed but for a day.

FORGETFULNESS.

BY MISS ELIZABETH S. BOGART.

We parted—friendship's dream had cast Deep interest o'er the brief farewell, And left upon the shadowy past Full many a thought on which to dwell. Such thoughts as come in early youth, And live in fellowship with hope; Robed in the brilliant hues of truth, Unfitted with the world to cope.

We parted—he went o'er the sea, And deeper solitude was mine; Yet there remained in memory, For feeling, still a sacred shrine. And thought and hope were offered up Till their ethereal essence fled, And disappointment, from the cup, Its dark libations poured, instead.

We parted—'twas an idle dream That thus we e'er should meet again; For who that knew man's heart, would deem That it could long unchanged remain. He sought a foreign clime, and learned Another language, which expressed To strangers the rich thoughts that burned With unquenched power within his breast.

And soon he better loved to speak In those new accents than his own; His native tongue seemed cold and weak, To breathe the wakened passions' tone. He wandered far, and lingered long, And drank so deep of Lethe's stream, That each new feeling grew more strong, And all the past was like a dream.

We met—a few glad words were spoken, A few kind glances were exchanged; But friendship's first romance was broken, His had been from me estranged. I felt it all—we met no more— My heart was true, but it was proud; Life's early confidence was o'er, And hope had set beneath a cloud.

We met no more—for neither sought To reunite the severed chain Of social intercourse; for nought Could join its parted links again. Too much of the wide world had been Between us for too long a time; And he had looked on many a scene, The beautiful and the sublime.

And he had themes on which to dwell, And memories that were not mine, Which formed a separating spell, And drew a mystic boundary line. His thoughts were wanderers—and the things Which brought back friendship's joys to me, To him were but the spirit's wings Which bore him o'er the distant sea.

For he had seen the evening star Glancing its rays o'er ocean's waves, And marked the moonbeams from afar, Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves. And he had gazed on trees and flowers Beneath Italia's sunny skies, And listened, in fair ladies' bowers, To genius' words, and beauty's sighs.

His steps had echoed through the halls Of grandeur, long left desolate; And he had climbed the crumbling walls, Or op'd perforce the hingeless gate; And mused o'er many an ancient pile, In ruin still magnificent, Whose histories could the hours beguile With dreams, before to fancy lent.

Such recollections come to him, With moon, and stars, and summer flowers; To me they bring the shadows dim Of earlier and of happier hours. I would those shadows darker fell— For life, with its best powers to bless, Has but few memories loved as well, Or welcome as forgetfulness.

ON SHIP-BOARD.

BY THEODORE S. FAY.

Now freshening breezes swell the sail, Now leans the vessel to the gale; So slant her deck, you have to cling A moment to the nearest thing; So far she bends into the deep, Across her deck the white waves sweep; Bursts through the flood the pointed prow, That loves the startled foam to throw, And thunders on before the wind, Long breaks of whirl and froth behind; And when the seas the bows o'erwhelm, The captain mutters, "mind your helm!" At night, when stormy shadows fall, "All hands on deck," the captain's call. Darkness around, save when below Dim light the bursting billows throw— And heave the waves, and beats the rain— The labouring vessel groans with pain; Strains—lurches—thunders—rocks and rolls, We smile—but tremble in our souls! Fierce howls the blast through sail and shroud, And rings the tempest long and loud; But sweet the change, when tranquilly In sunshine sleep the air and sea. Pen may not paint each magic dye On the soft wave and sunny sky, When comes the charming silent eve, And gentle billows idly heave. The liquid floor bends smooth and bright, Like molten silver to the light; Till, as the western clouds enfold The fiery sun, it turns to gold, And then a thousand colours, straying From heaven to earth, and sweetly playing Upon the ocean's giant breast, Compose his savage soul to rest. And thus, within the human mind, When waves are hushed and still the wind, When passion's storm has passed away, And vice no more obscures the day, The beams of virtue and of love Break softly, falling from above, O'er half-breathed wordly wishes shine, And calm them with a power divine.

TO THEMIRA.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

[Written with French chalk [Q] on a pane of glass in the home of a friend.]

[From the Backwoodsman.]

BY JAMES K. PAULDING.

'Twas sunset's hallow'd time—and such an eve Might almost tempt an angel heaven to leave. Never did brighter glories greet the eye, Low in the warm and ruddy western sky: Nor the light clouds at summer eve unfold More varied tints of purple, red, and gold. Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest, Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide, By elfin skill in fancy's fabled tide, Were, as wild eastern legends idly feign, Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign. Others, like vessels gilt with burnish'd gold, Their flitting, airy way are seen to hold, All gallantly equipp'd with streamers gay, While hands unseen, or chance directs their way; Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide, With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide, Gay as the bark where Egypt's wanton queen Reclining on the shaded deck was seen, At which as gazed the uxorious Roman fool, The subject world slipt from his dotard rule. Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade, And deeper hues the ruddy skied invade; The haze of gathering twilight nature shrouds, And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds. Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm, The silent dews of evening dropt like balm; The hungry night-hawk from his lone haunt hies, To chase the viewless insect through the skies; The bat began his lantern-loving flight, The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night, Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near, His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear; The buzzing beetle forth did gaily hie, With idle hum, and careless blundering eye; The little trusty watchman of pale night, The firefly trimm'd anew his lamp so bright, And took his merry airy circuit round The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound, Where blossom'd clover, bathed in balmy dew, In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew.

THOUGHTS ON PARTING.

BY JOHN INMAN.

Yes! I will hope, though fortune's stern decree From all I love commands me soon to part; Nor doubt, though absent, that a thought of me Shall sometimes find a place in every heart, Where feeling glows, unchilled by time or art— Why should I doubt, when doubt is wretchedness, Such as to feel bids bitter tears to start From eyes that seldom weep, though tears, perhaps, might bless?

It cannot be that love like that which fills My soul for them, should be bestowed in vain, When but the fear that they forget me, chills Each pulse and feeling—as the wintry rain Chills earth and air, which yet may glow again In summer's beams—but what can joy restore To bosoms upon which that blight has lain? From such e'en hope departs, and can return no more.

For them I would have done—but let me not Such thoughts recall—could service e'er repay The blessings their companionship has wrought?— With them too swiftly passed the time away, On pleasure's wings—weeks dwindled to a day, And days to moments—such the charm they cast O'er every scene, and such their gentle sway, Making each glad hour seem still brighter than the last.

To them I turned, as Iran's tameless race Toward their refulgent God looked till the last, And died still gazing on his radiant face;— Alas! the spring-time of my year is past— From them afar my line of life is cast, And I must wander now like one that's lost— A helmless bark, blown wide by every blast, And without hope or joy, on life's rude surges toss'd.

Oh no, it cannot be that grief like this Should be reserved to blight my coming years— That moments of such almost perfect bliss Should be succeeded by an age of tears— Revive, then, hope, and put to flight my fears; I'll meet the future with undaunted eye, Trusting thy light, that now my pathway cheers, Gilding its onward course, as sunset gilds the sky.

THE FALLS OF NIAGARA.

[Translated from the Italian.] [R]

BY SAMUEL L. MITCHELL.—1796.

Borne to the rocky bed's extremest brow, The flood leaps headlong, nor a moment waits;— To join the whirlpool deep and vast below, The saltless ocean hurries through the straits.

Hoarse roars the broken wave; and upward driv'n, Dashes in air;—dissolving vapours press'd Confound the troubled elements with heav'n:— Earth quakes beneath;—heart trembles in the breast.

With steps uncertain, to a jutting rock, To gaze upon the immense abyss I hie; And all my senses feel a horrid shock As down the steep I turn my dizzy eye.

On cloudy steams I take a flight sublime, Leaving the world and nature's works behind; And as the pure empyreal heights I climb, Reflect with rapture on the Immortal Mind.

CANZONET.

BY J. B. VANSCHAICK.

When motes, that dancing In golden wine, To the eyes' glancing Speak while they shine— Then, the draught pouring, Love's fountain free, Mute, but adoring, I drink to thee.

When sleep enchaineth, Sense steals away— Dream, o'er mind reigneth With dark strange sway— One sweet face floateth Sleep's misty sea, Th' unconscious heart doateth On thee—on thee.

THE PENNSYLVANIAN IMMIGRANT.

[From the Backwoodsman.]

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land, Unheeded pass'd our little roving band, —For every soul had something here to do, Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view— By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles 'bide, In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side, And York and Lancaster—whose rival rose In this good land, no bloody discord knows. Not such their fate!—the ever grateful soil Rewards the blue-eyed German's patient toil; Richer and rounder every year he grows, Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows Than caitiff grub, or cursed Hessian fly, Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky; Before he sells, the market's sudden fall, Or sudden rise, when sold—still worse than all! Calmly he lives—the tempest of the mind, That marks its course by many a wreck behind; The purpose high that great ambition feels, Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals, But never in his sober waking thought One stirring, active impulse ever wrought. Calmly he lives—as free from good as blame, His home, his dress, his equipage the same; And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot What once he was, or what he once was not— An honest man, perhaps,—'tis somewhat odd That such should be the noblest work of God! So have I seen, in garden rich and gay, A stately cabbage waxing fat each day; Unlike the lively foliage of the trees, Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in summer breeze, Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around, Upon its clumsy stem is ever found; It heeds not noontide heats, nor evening's balm, And stands unmoved in one eternal calm. At last, when all the garden's pride is lost It ripens in drear autumn's killing frost, And in a savoury sourkrout finds its end, From which detested dish, me heaven defend!

LAKE GEORGE.—1829.

BY S. DE WITT BLOODGOOD.

I stood upon the shore, And looked upon the wave, While I thought me o'er and o'er Here sleep the brave!

The shadow of the hills, The azure of the flood, The murmuring of the rills Recall a scene of blood.

When the war-cry filled the breeze, And the rifle and the bow Were like leaves upon the trees, But did not daunt Munro!

'Mid the thunders of the train, And the fires that flashed alarm! And the shouts that rent the plain, To battle rush'd Montcalm!

But the red cross floats no more Upon the ruin'd walls, And the wind sighs on the shore, Like the noise of waterfalls.

And the spirit of the hour Is as peaceful as yon wave, While pleasure builds its bower O'er the ashes of the brave.

CROSSING THE ALLEGHANIES.

[From the Backwoodsman.]

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Our Basil beat the lazy sun next day, And bright and early had been on his way. But that the world he saw e'en yesternight, Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight. One endless chaos spread before his eyes, No vestige left of earth or azure skies, A boundless nothingness reign'd everywhere, Hid the green fields and silent all the air. As look'd the traveller for the world below, The lively morning breeze began to blow, The magic curtain roll'd in mists away, And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day. As light the fleeting vapours upward glide, Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side, New objects open to his wondering view Of various form, and combinations new. A rocky precipice, a waving wood, Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood, Each after each, with coy and sweet delay, Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day, Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold, Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold. So when the wandering grandsire of our race On Ararat had found a resting place, At first a shoreless ocean met his eye, Mingling on every side with one blue sky; But as the waters, every passing day, Sunk in the earth or roll'd in mists away, Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands, peep From the rough bosom of the boundless deep, Then the round hillocks, and the meadows green, Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen, Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole Combined to win the gazing patriarch's soul. Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye, In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy, Within the silent world, some living thing, Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing, Or man, or beast—alas! was neither there, Nothing that breathed of life in earth or air; 'Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay, Whose occupant was drown'd the other day; A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom Amid the melancholy of the tomb; A charnel house, where all the human race Had piled their bones in one wide resting place; Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo, And sadly sought the lifeless world below.

THE CLOUDS.

BY GEORGE D. STRONG.

How beauteous o'er the blue expanse Pencilling their shadows on the evening sky, The gathering clouds with gauze-wings unfold Their heaven wove tapestry: Veiling in mist the dim and wearied sun, Ere yet the drapery of his couch is won!

Behold! behold them now! Tossing their gold-edged tresses on the breeze! Gliding like angels o'er the star-gemmed floor To heavenly symphonies! While distant seen, like hope to faith's clear view, Sleeps in calm splendour the cerulean blue!

Ere yet imagination's wand Has traced the vision on the teeming brain, The fleeting pageant floats in mist, away Beyond the billowy main: But forms more beauteous wing again their flight, While eve reposes on the lap of night.

Yon castellated tower As proudly cuts its turrets on the sky, As if the portals of its airy halls Blazoned with heraldry! And who shall say, but in its chambers glide Pale courtier's shadows—disembodied pride?

The mimic ship unfolds Her swelling canvass on the airy main; And horsemen sweep in graceful circles o'er Th' etherial plain: While forms of light unknown to mortals here, People in myriads the celestial sphere!

And many-coloured flowers, Changing their hues with every passing breeze, Crown the far summits of the mountain steeps; The shadowy trees Fling their gigantic branches wide and far, Dimming the lustre of full many a star.

How oft in childhood's hour I've watched the cloudlets pale the evening beam, While the bright day-god quenched his waning fires In ocean, pool, and stream. Oh, then the clouds were ministers of joy To the rapt spirit of the dreamy boy!

Mother and sister! Ye Have passed from earth like suns untimely set! Do ye not look from yonder throne of clouds Upon me yet, Beckoning me now, with eager glance to come To the bright portals of your heavenly home?

Skeptic! whose chilling creed Would chain the spirit to life's bounded span, Learn from the clouds that upward poise their wing, To value man! Nor deem the soul divested of its shroud— Less glorious in its essence than a cloud!

THE TORNADO.

[From the Backwoodsman.]

BY J. K. PAULDING.

Now down the mountain's rugged western side, Descending slow, our lonely travellers hied, Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breast The rolling fragments of the mountain rest; Rocks tumbled on each other by rude chance, Crown'd with grey fern, and mosses, met the glance, Through which a brawling river braved its way, Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray. Here, 'mid the fragments of a broken world, In wild and rough confusion, idly hurl'd, Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke, Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak; With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side, And arms extending round them far and wide, They look'd coeval with old mother earth, And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth. There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base, Our tired adventurers found a resting place; Beneath its dark, o'erhanging, sullen brow, The little bevy nestled snug below, And with right sturdy appetite, and strong, Devour'd the rustic meal they brought along. The squirrel eyed them from his lofty tree, And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee; The woodcock crow'd as if alone he were, Or heeded not the strange intruders there, Sure sign they little knew of man's proud race In that sequester'd mountain 'biding place; For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend, Man never makes the rural train his friend; Acquaintance that brings other beings near, Produces nothing but distrust or fear: Beasts flee from man the more his heart they know, And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow, As thus in blithe serenity they sat, Beguiling resting time with lively chat, A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear, Each moment waxing louder and more near, A dark obscurity spread all around, And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground, While not a leaf e'en of the aspen stirr'd, And not a sound but that low moan was heard. There is a moment when the boldest heart That would not stoop an inch to 'scape death's dart, That never shrunk from certain danger here, Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear; 'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh, And heaven itself seems threatening from on high. Brave was our Basil, as became a man, Yet still his blood a little cooler ran, 'Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear, That every moment wax'd more loud and near. The riddle soon was read—at last it came, And nature trembled to her inmost frame; The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak, In writhing agonies the storm bespoke, The live leaves scatter'd wildly everywhere, Whirl'd round in maddening circles in the air; The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around, The stoutest trees a stouter master found, Crackling, and crashing, down they thundering go, And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below: Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd, Higher the river rose, and louder roar'd, And on its dark, quick eddying surface bore The gather'd spoils of earth along its shore, While trees that not an hour before had stood The lofty monarchs of the stately wood, Now whirling round and round with furious force, Dash 'gainst the rocks that breast the torrent's force, And shiver like a reed by urchin broke Through idle mischief, or with heedless stroke; A hundred cataracts, unknown before, Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar, And as with foaming fury down they go, Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below; Blue lightnings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung, Like serpents, menacing with forked tongue, While many a sturdy oak that stiffly braved The threatening hurricane that round it raved, Shiver'd beneath its bright, resistless flash, Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash. Air, earth, and skies, seem'd now to try their power, And struggle for the mastery of the hour; Higher the waters rose, and blacker still, And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill.

TO A LADY.

BY CLEMENT C. MOORE.—1804.

Thy dimpled girls and rosy boys Rekindle in thy heart the joys That bless'd thy tender years: Unheeded fleet the hours away; For, while thy cherubs round thee play, New life thy bosom cheers.

Once more, thou tell'st me, I may taste, Ere envious time this frame shall waste, My infant pleasures flown. Ah! there's a ray of lustre mild, Illumes the bosom of a child, To age, alas! scarce known.

Not for my infant pleasures past I mourn; those joys which flew so fast, They, too, had many a stain; But for the mind, so pure and light, Which made those joys so fair, so bright, I sigh, and sigh in vain.

Well I remember you, bless'd hours! Your sunbeams bright, your transient showers! Thoughtless I saw you fly; For distant ills then caus'd no dread; Nor cared I for the moments fled, For memory call'd no sigh.

Fond parents swayed my every thought; No blame I feared, no praise I sought, But what their love bestowed. Full soon I learn'd each meaning look, Nor e'er the angry glance mistook For that where rapture glowed.

Whene'er night's shadows called to rest, I sought my father, to request His benediction mild. A mother's love more loud would speak; With kiss on kiss she'd print my cheek, And bless her darling child.

Thy lightest mists and clouds, sweet sleep! Thy purest opiates thou dost keep, On infancy to shed. No guilt there checks thy soft embrace, And not e'en tears and sobs can chase Thee from an infant's bed.

The trickling tears which flow'd at night, Oft hast thou stay'd, till morning light Dispell'd my little woes. So fly before the sunbeam's power The remnants of the evening shower Which wet the early rose.

Farewell, bless'd hours! full fast ye flew; And that which made your bliss so true Ye would not leave behind. The glow of youth ye could not leave; But why, why cruelly bereave Me of my artless mind?

Fond mother! hope thy bosom warms, That on the prattler in thy arms Heaven's choicest gifts may flow. Thus let thy prayer incessant rise To Him, who, thron'd above the skies, Can feel for man below.

"Oh! Thou, whose view is ne'er estrang'd From innocence, preserve unchang'd Through life my darling's mind; Unchang'd in truth and purity, Still fearless of futurity, Still artless, though refin'd.

"As oft his anxious nurse hath caught And sav'd his little hand that sought The bright, but treacherous blaze; So, let fair Wisdom keep him sure From glittering vices which allure, Through life's delusive maze.

Oh! may the ills which man enshroud, As shadows of a transient cloud, But shade, not stain my boy. Then may he gently drop to rest, Calm as a child by sleep oppress'd, And wake to endless joy."

SPRING IS COMING.

BY JAMES NACK.

Spring is coming, spring is coming, Birds are chirping, insects humming; Flowers are peeping from their sleeping, Streams escaped from winter's keeping. In delighted freedom rushing, Dance along in music gushing, Scenes of late in deadness saddened, Smile in animation gladdened; All is beauty, all is mirth, All is glory upon earth. Shout we then with Nature's voice, Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

Spring is coming, come, my brother, Let us rove with one another, To our well-remembered wild wood, Flourishing in nature's childhood; Where a thousand flowers are springing, And a thousand birds are singing; Where the golden sunbeams quiver On the verdure-girdled river; Let our youth of feeling out, To the youth of nature shout, While the waves repeat our voice, Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice!

FROM A FATHER TO HIS CHILDREN,

AFTER HAVING HAD HIS PORTRAIT TAKEN FOR THEM.

BY C. C. MOORE.

This semblance of your parent's time-worn face Is but a sad bequest, my children dear: Its youth and freshness gone, and in their place The lines of care, the tracks of many a tear!

Amid life's wreck, we struggle to secure Some floating fragment from oblivion's wave: We pant for somewhat that may still endure, And snatch at least a shadow from the grave.

Poor, weak, and transient mortals! why so vain Of manly vigour or of beauty's bloom? An empty shade for ages may remain When we have mouldered in the silent tomb.

But no! it is not we who moulder there; We, of essential light that ever burns, We take our way through untried fields of air, When to the earth this earth-born frame returns.

And 'tis the glory of the master's art Some radiance of this inward light to find; Some touch that to his canvass may impart A breath, a sparkle of the immortal mind.

Alas! the pencil's noblest power can show But some faint shadow of a transient thought, Some waken'd feeling's momentary glow, Some swift impression in its passage caught.

Oh! that the artist's pencil could pourtray A father's inward bosom to your eyes; What hopes, and fears, and doubts perplex his way, What aspirations for your welfare rise.

Then might this unsubstantial image prove, When I am gone, a guardian of your youth, A friend for ever urging you to move In paths of honour, holiness, and truth.

Let fond imagination's power supply The void that baffles all the painter's art; And when those mimic features meet your eye, Then fancy that they speak a parent's heart.

Think that you still can trace within those eyes The kindling of affection's fervid beam, The searching glance that every fault espies, The fond anticipation's pleasing dream.

Fancy those lips still utter sounds of praise, Or kind reproof that checks each wayward will, The warning voice, or precepts that may raise Your thoughts above this treach'rous world of ill.

And thus shall Art attain her loftiest power; To noblest purpose shall her efforts tend: Not the companion of an idle hour, But Virtue's handmaid and Religion's friend.

THE MITCHELLA.

BY S. L. MITCHELL.

[The Mitchella is a very delicate flower, a native of our woods, and although originally named from another botanist called Mitchell, was always a great favourite of Dr. S. L. Mitchell. The "double nature" alluded to in the poem refers to the fact of the flowers uniformly growing in pairs.]

Sequestered safe beneath the sylvan bow'rs, Lo! fair Mitchella spends her joyous hours. The double nature on her form bestow'd Displays a winning and peculiar mode. With lilac wreath her beauteous front is grac'd, A crimson zone surrounds her slender waist; A robe of green trails sweeping o'er the ground, And scents ambrosial fill the air around— Thus Proserpine o'er Enna's precincts stray'd Till gloomy Dis surpris'd the unthinking maid. From Earth to Tartarus transferr'd, in vain She intercedes her native home to gain. Jove grants in part her pray'r: above to know One half the year, the rest to pass below: And Ceres sees her daughter's two-fold mien, On Earth a nymph, in Pluto's realms a queen.

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

BY CLEMENT C. MOORE.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced through their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap— When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter: Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon, on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below. When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick, I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen! On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Donder and Blixen— To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!" As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So, up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys—and St. Nicholas too. And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he look'd like a pedlar just opening his pack. His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf; And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself. A wink of his eye, and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jirk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY

WHOSE HEALTH WAS IMPAIRED BY THE AGUE AND FEVER.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.—1805.

Dark minister of many woes, That lov'st the sad vicissitude of pain, Now shivering 'mid Antarctic snows, Now a faint pilgrim on Medina's plain. Say, can no form less fair thy vein engage? Must feeble loveliness exhaust thy rage? Oh, mark the faltering step, the languid eye, And all the anguish of her burning sigh: See the faintly struggling smile, See resignation's tear the while; So to the axe the martyr bends his form, So bends the lovely lily to the storm. Still though, sweet maid, thy yielding bloom decays, And faint the waning tide of rapture strays, Oh, may'st thou 'scape griefs more envenom'd smart, Nor ever know the ague of the heart. For rising from the sun bright plain, The bended lily blooms again; But ah! what life imparting power Can e'er revive the broken flower?

THE GIFTS OF PROVIDENCE.

BY WILLIAM LIVINGSTON.—1747.

Oft on the vilest riches are bestow'd, To show their meanness in the sight of God. High from a dunghill see a Dives rise, And, Titan-like, insult the avenging skies: The crowd in adulation calls him lord, By thousands courted, flatter'd, and adored: In riot plunged, and drunk with earthly joys, No higher thought his grovelling soul employs; The poor he scourges with an iron rod, And from his bosom banishes his God. But oft, in height of wealth and beauty's bloom, Deluded man is fated to the tomb! For lo, he sickens, swift his colour flies, And rising mists obscure his swimming eyes: Around his bed his weeping friends bemoan, Extort the unwilling tear, and wish him gone; His sorrowing heir augments the tender shower, Deplores his death—yet hails the dying hour. Ah, bitter comfort! sad relief to die! Though sunk in down, beneath a canopy! His eyes no more shall see the cheerful light, Weigh'd down by death in everlasting night: And now the great, the rich, the proud, the gay, Lies breathless, cold—unanimated clay! He that just now, was flatter'd by the crowd With high applause and acclamation loud; That steel'd his bosom to the orphan's cries, And drew down torrents from the widow's eyes; Whom, like a God, the rabble did adore— Regard him now—and lo! he is no more.

FROM A HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.

BY C. C. MOORE.

[Lines written on the window-glass of an Inn in England during the author's travels through Europe in 1774-5.]

BY GULIAN VERPLANCK.

Hail happy Britain, Freedom's blest retreat; Great is thy power, thy wealth, thy glory great, But wealth and power have no immortal day, For all things ripen only to decay. And when that time arrives, the lot of all, When Britain's glory, power, and wealth shall fall; Then shall thy sons by Fate's unchang'd decree In other worlds another Britain see, And what thou art, America shall be.

LINES

[Suggested by a Perusal of "The Life of Chatterton."]

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.

And yet there are, who, borne on fortune's tide, Down the smooth vale of time unconscious glide; Ne'er dream of wretchedness when they repose, Nor wake to other cares, to other woes. And when the north wind rages through the sky, Withhold from bleeding poverty a sigh; Leave those to weep, who, torn from all held dear, In want and silence shed the frequent tear; Who, reared 'mid fortune's noon, ill brook the shade, And feel with tenfold sense its damps invade; Feel more than chilling frost neglects control, And all the horrors of a wintry soul; For ah; how oft from penury's cold grave, Nor worth nor all the power of mind can save? Condemned through life a ceaseless war to wage With all the pride and dulness of the age; Still vain each wish o'erwhelm'd, each hope elate, Oft Genius sinks desponding to her fate, Or moves the indignant pensioner of pride, Her triumphs blazon, nor her spoils divide; And, wrapt in chilling gloom, ne'er feels the day, Taught by her hand round happier wealth to play. Ah, stern decree! that minds whom Heaven inspires With more than angel thought, than angel fires; Whose virtues vibrate to the tenderest tone, And wake to wo ere half her woes be known; From the high boon a sterner fate derive, And suffer most, to suffering most alive.

THE MAGIC DRAUGHT.

[Addressed to a young Lady who gave him Seltzer water to drink.]

BY DR. S. L. MITCHELL.

Brisk sparkled the liquid, most lively and fine, Transparent as amber, than crystal more pure, Appearing those qualities rare to combine, Adapted exactly his health to secure.

Pursuant to order, he drank in a trice, Full confidence in his physician he placed; For who that is favour'd with lady's advice Can ever refuse their prescriptions to taste?

Unconscious what mischief within it might lurk, He swallowed the doses again and again, Till he fancied within him a manifold work, Disturbing his heart and distracting his brain.

Suspecting, at last, from his feelings unus'd, A trick on his faith had been wantonly play'd, "Some philter or potion" he swore "was infused, Some magic or poison instilled by the maid."

"Not this a Nepenthe the mind to compose, Which Helen at Sparta employ'd in her feasts, But a draught such as Circe, the sorceress, chose, Transforming the drinkers to four-footed beasts."

"Not a worse composition did Shakspeare behold, Prepared in their cauldron by witches obscene, Nor were drugs more detested, as Hayley has told, Commix'd by the fiends when they conjur'd up Spleen."

Thus railing and raving, awhile he went on, Bethinking he soon must his testament make, When lo! all the terrible symptoms were gone, And his woful conjecture turn'd out a mistake.

No water from Seltzer the vessel contain'd, Nor has Pyrmont or Spa such a remedy known; For she candidly, since the prescription, explain'd, Prepar'd by a process entirely her own.

The tears which at church on Good Friday she shed, After Easter was over, had fairly been dry'd, But the 'kerchief on which she supported her head Was laid with the precious effusion aside.

This 'kerchief, to bleech in the sunshine was plac'd, And expos'd to the weather by night and by day; With snow-flakes of April was often incas'd, And moisten'd as often by dew-drops of May.

In ether's high region, where thunders prevail, Those drops by explosion's electric were form'd, Had once in descending been frozen to hail, And twice in the rainbow's refraction been warm'd.

Collecting these drops on their fall from above, With myrtle's quintessence she tinctur'd the mass; Then breath'd in the mixture the spirit of love, And blessing, enclos'd it securely in glass.

This potent elixir, he plainly observes, Of his head and his heart has pervaded the whole; Excites every fibre, and quickens the nerves, With sweet agitation delighting the soul.

Yet he fears its effects on his temper and health Will make him his toilsome exertions disclaim; No more be devoted to projects of wealth, Nor seek to be crown'd with the laurels of Fame.

Nay—an antidote sovereign he long has possess'd, His affections from spells and enchantments to free; No foreign intruder can enter a breast, Pre-occupied, heart winning S——h by thee.

IMPROMPTU.

[On Miss ——'s paying the tribute of a tear to a scene of distress.]

BY JACOB MORTON.—1790.

Soft as the dews of evening skies Which on the flow'ret's bosom fall, Were those sweet tears in Anna's eyes Which wak'd at pity's gentle call.

Ah! may that tender, feeling heart, Where thus sweet sympathy doth glow, Ne'er feel the pang of sorrow's dart, Nor sigh—but for another's wo.

APPEAL

TO A CERTAIN GREAT MAN, WHO HAS

QUESTIONED CERTAIN REVEALED TRUTHS.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.—1805.

Thou talk'st of Reason's unassisted eye: Lift then thy darling Reason to the sky,— Paint, if thou wilt, the unincumber'd mind, Vast in its powers, and in its views refin'd; To truth aspiring on the wings of day, And spanning systems with a godlike sway. The portrait you have formed you dread to own, And Guilt's deep blushes o'er its shades are thrown: For has the Almighty thus inform'd the race, His truth to question and his laws deface? Bestow'd a mind the Eternal's mind to blame, And Reason's deathless force, His reason to defame? As well might Jove's imperial bird defy The Power that made him soar, because he soars so high.

LINES

TO A DAUGHTER OF THE LATE GOVERNOR CLINTON.

BY J. B. VAN SCHAICK.—1829.

And thou, fair flower of hope! Like a sweet violet, delicate and frail, Hast reared thy tender stem beneath an oak, Whose noble limbs o'ershadowed thee. The damp Cold dews of the unhealthy world fell not On thee; the gaudy sunshine of its pomp Came tempered to thine eye in milder beams. The train of life's inevitable ills Fell like the April rain upon the flowers, But thou wert shielded—no rude pelting storms Came down unbroken by thy sheltering tree.

Fallen is the oak, The monarch of a forest sleeps. Around, The withered ivy and the broken branch Are silent evidence of greatness past, And his sweet, cherished violet has drunk The bitter dews until its cup was full. And now strange trees wave o'er it, and the shade Of weeping-willows and down-swaying boughs Stretch toward it with melancholy sorrow— All sympathizing with the drooping flower. And years shall pass ere living trees forget That stately oak, and what a fame he shed O'er all the forest, and how each was proud That he could call himself a kindred thing.

Long may the beauty of that violet Grow in the soil of hearts; till, delicate, Yet ripened into summer loveliness, A thousand branches all shall contending cast Their friendly shadows in protection there!

THE SON OF SORROW.

TO MYRA.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.

When deep despondence gathers into shade, And grief unfeign'd calls fiction to her aid— Paints through the vista of expected years, Hours clad with wo and visions dim with tears— The past and future one large waste of gloom— Here mem'ry's madness, there oblivion's tomb; No ear to list, no voice to soothe despair, And even death is deaf to sorrow's prayer. Oh! say, sweet minstrel, (for thy sighs I know Are wont to mingle with the sighs of wo,) Where shall the hope-deserted pilgrim fly To live too wretched, and too weak to die? Perhaps, e'en now, impassion'd and sincere, The sigh of beauty steals upon his ear— Soft as the sky-wove theme of viewless lyres, That soothe his spirit when the saint expires: And oh! perhaps, ere quite dissolv'd in air, That sigh may breathe oblivion to despair; Melt o'er the throbbing string in Myra's lay, Till wo, enraptur'd, bears herself away.

PORTRAITURE.

[From "Vice, a Satire," 1774.]

BY GULIAN VERPLANCK.

Ob: 1799.

Go, learn thou this: From regulated Sense Is all our bliss—from sober Temperance. How much, Oh Temperance! to thee we owe, What joys sincere from thy pure fountains flow; Life's most protracted date derives from thee A calm old age, and death from anguish free. Doth Death affright thee with his dread parade, The hearse slow moving, and the cavalcade? Go, early learn its terrors to despise, Read virtue's lesson, and in time be wise. Enough of crimes on these Heav'n's vengeance wait, Let Satire aim at faults of humbler state. Whoe'er observes, will find in human race More difference of character than face; Some nice, odd turns, in all th' observer strike, Each his peculiar has, nor find we two alike. Blest with each art that soothes the ills of life, A quiet mind, not made for noise and strife; In whose fixed calm no jarring powers contend, Design'd to act as husband, father, friend; Had Philo been content with what was given, And, truly wise, enjoy'd on earth his heav'n: Philo had lived—but lived unknown to fame; Had died content,—but died without a name. No, Philo cried, be glorious praise my care, Nor let this name be mix'd with common air; For this he wastes the weary hours of night, Leaves peace to fools, and banishes delight; Nature in vain throws in her honest bars, The wretch runs counter to himself and stars; In vain—for lost no character he seems, And Philo does not live, but only dreams. Others there are, who to the shade retire, Who'd shine if nature would the clods inspire, And, as she gave them parts, would give them fire; But languid bodies, scarce informed with soul, In one dull round their vacant moments roll; Heavy and motionless as summer seas, They yawn out life in most laborious ease; Passions, half formed, in their cold bosoms lie, And all the man is sluggish anarchy. Yet wits, and wise, when some small shocks awake, As when the surface of some stagnant lake, Urged by the action of the busy air, Breaks its thick scum, and shows the bottom clear. Who knows not Florio? sweet, enraptured elf! Florio is known to all men but himself. Him folly owned the instant of his birth, And turned his soul to nonsense and to mirth; Nor boasts a son, in all her dancing crowd, So pert, so prim, so petulant, and proud. Mixture absurd and strange! we find in him Dulness with wit, sobriety with whim; A soul that sickens at each rising art With the mean malice of a coward's heart. So milky soft, so pretty, and so neat, With air so gentle, and with voice so sweet; What dog-star's rage, what maggot of the brain, Could make a fop so impudently vain, To throw all modesty aside, and sit The mighty censor of the works of wit? Say, wretch! what pride could prompt thee to bestow Abuse on power, the greatest power below; The Muse's power? That power thyself shall know: Her pen shall add thee to the long, long roll That holds the name of every brother fool. Of various passions that divide the breast, Pride reigns supreme and governs all the rest; Its form is varied, but to all supplied In equal shares, however modified. Blest source of action, whose perpetual strife With sluggish nature, warms us into life; Thou great first mover, 'tis alone from thee That life derives its sweet diversity. Yet hapless he, whose ill-directed pride With soft seduction draws his steps aside From life's low vale, where humbler joys invite; With bold, rash tread, to gain distinction's height. Him peace forsakes, and endless toils oppose, A friend's defection, and the spleen of foes. Black calumny invents her thousand lies, And sickly envy blasts him if he rise— He, wretch accursed, tied down to servile rules, Must think and act no more like other fools: For him no more that social ease remains Which sweetens life, and softens all its pains; Each jealous eye betrays a critic's pen, To search for faults it spares in other men. How shall he wish in vain, once more his own, That hour when free, and to the world unknown, Its praise he had not, nor could fear its frown.

THE FAREWELL.

BY JOHN I. BAILEY.

Oh! leave me still thy tender heart, Though love's delirious reign is over; I, too, will act the traitor's part— Cordelia-like, become a rover. No more I'll gaze on smiles of thine, That beam as sweetly on another, Save with the feelings pure that twine Around the bosom of a brother.

Loved smiles! that once around me shone, And waked to feelings of devotion; Thy sway is past, thy charm is gone— Thou art resigned without emotion. No more to charm my wildered dream, Or hope's delusive joys to heighten; O'er my lone heart thy cheerless beam Falls, but has lost the power to brighten.

The auburn ringlets of thy hair May twine as graceful still, and let them— Those locks were once as loved as fair, Yet lost to me, I'll ne'er regret them. Yes! I could view those curls entwine Around another's hand that wreath'd them; Unmoved, recall those tones divine, Once sweet as were the lips that breath'd them!

Thy form no longer wears the spell, As when a lover's dreams it haunted; Nor can affection fondly dwell On every grace that once enchanted. Then fare thee well! thou'st broke the chain; Go! yield thy charms to bless another; I would not seek their wiles again, I only ask—to be thy brother.

SONNET TO MYRA.

BY A. L. BLAUVELT.

How sad the exile from his native skies Doom'd on the shade of parted bliss to dwell— No ear to catch his penitential sighs, No voice to soothe him in his last farewell. Anxious he treads th' inhospitable shore, And gazes anxious on the main Where ling'ring fancy loves to feign Till day's last lustre bids her wake no more; Then horror climbs the dusky wave, And beckons madness to her grave, Where, cradled by the surge to rest, Low sighs the passing gale, "Despair is blest." Ah! sadder far an exile from thy charms; Friends, Country, Freedom, smile in Myra's arms.

TO CORDELIA.

BY JOHN J. BAILEY.

Smile not, sweet girl, 'tis even so— Cordelia, smile not unbelieving; My words, though not so sweet, I know, As thine, were never so deceiving.

And if I must be sworn to prove That I have said sincerely, thereby, I'd choose thy brow, so formed for love, To be the book I'd kissing swear by.

Nay, look not angry thus, 'tis vain— I value not thy frowns a feather— 'Tis not thy nature to retain An unkind thought for hours together.

I envy not thy lover's joys, Nor flattering smiles that so endear them; Thy brittle chains caprice destroys; Oh! who on earth would wish to wear them?

Yes! I could give thee many a name Of those who've waked thy tender bosom; A flame succeeding still to flame, Yet thou wert e'er content to lose 'em.

Content to wound that bosom too, That had for years, unchanged, ador'd thee; Oh! when thou held'st a heart so true, What joy could ranging thus afford thee?

I trust an angel's form thou'lt wear E'er I ascend to yonder Heaven; Or I a tale could give in there, Would leave thee lost and unforgiven.

SONG.—WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND THEE

BY G. P. MORRIS.

When other friends are round thee, And other hearts are thine; When other bays have crowned thee, More fresh and green than mine. Then think how sad and lonely This wretched heart will be; Which, while it beats—beats only, Beloved one! for thee.

Yet do not think I doubt thee; I know thy truth remains, I would not live without thee For all the world contains. Thou art the star that guides me Along life's troubled sea, And whatever fate betides me, This heart still turns to thee.

DEATH OF THE FIRST-BORN.

BY WILLIS G. CLARK.

Young mother, he is gone, His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast, No more the music tone Float from his lips to thine all fondly prest; His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee, Earth must his mother and his pillow be.

His was the morning hour, And he hath passed in beauty from the day, A bud not yet a flower; Torn in its sweetness from the parent spray, The death wind swept him to his soft repose, As frost in spring-time blights the early rose.

Never on earth again Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear, Like some Æolian strain, Breathing at even-tide serene and clear; His voice is choked in dust, and on his eyes The unbroken seal of peace and silence lies.

And from thy yearning heart, Whose inmost core was warm with love for him, A gladness must depart, And those kind eyes with many tears be dim; While lonely memories, an unceasing train, Will turn the raptures of the past to pain.

Yet, mourner, while the day Rolls like the darkness of a funeral by, And hope forbids one ray To stream athwart the grief-discoloured sky, There breaks upon thy sorrow's evening gloom A trembling lustre from beyond the tomb.

'Tis from the better land: There, bathed in radiance that around them springs, Thy lov'd one's wings expand, As with the quoiring cherubim he sings; And all the glory of that God can see, Who said on earth to children, "Come to me."

Mother! thy child is blest; And though his presence may be lost to thee, And vacant leave thy breast, And missed a sweet load from thy parent knee— Though tones familiar from thine ear have passed, Thou'lt meet thy first-born with his Lord at last.

ELEGY ON THE EXILE AND DEATH OF OVID.

[Translated from the Latin of Angelus Politianus.]

BY FRANCIS ARDEN.—1821.

A Roman Bard lies on the Euxine's side, Barbarian earth a Roman poet holds, Barbarian earth, wash'd by cold Isther's tide, The poet of the tender loves infolds.

Excites not this, O Rome! a blush in thee, That to so great a nursling, harsh of mood, Reserv'st a bosom steel'd in cruelty, Surpassing the inhuman Getic brood?

Had Scythian fields, ye muses, one to chase, His weary minutes of disease away, His frigid limbs upon the couch to place, Or with sweet converse to beguile the day.

One who would mark the throbbing of his veins, The lotion's aid with ready hand apply, Would close his eyes 'midst dissolution's pains, Or with fond lips inhale his latest sigh.

None could be found, not one, for warlike Rome, From Pontus far detains his early friends, Far stands his wife's and young descendants' home, Nor on her exil'd sire his daughter tends.

But the wild Bessi of enormous limb, And the Coralli yellow hair'd, are there; Or, clad in skins, the Getic people grim, Whose bosoms hearts of flint within them bear.

Yes, the Sarmatian boor, with aspect dread, His savage succours on the bard bestow'd; The fierce Sarmatian, from debauch oft led, Borne to his horse's back a reeling load.

The fierce Sarmatian boor, with piercing eye Deep prison'd in his rugged forehead's bound, Whose temples, shiv'ring 'neath th' inclement sky, With clatt'rings of his frost-wrapp'd hair resound.

Yes; for the bard immers'd in death's long sleep, The Bessic plund'rers bid their tears to flow, The rough Coralli and Sarmatian weep, And cruel Getic strikes his face the blow.

Hills, woods, and savage beasts his death deplore, And Ister wails amid his waters' bed, And Pontus, chill'd with ice incrusted o'er, Warms with the tears the sorrowing Nereids shed.

There with the Paphian mother in swift haste, The light-winged Doves through airy regions came, With pious care the blazing torches plac'd Beneath the pyre prepar'd to feed the flame.

Soon as the rapid fires with wasteful sway Consum'd whate'er their greedy rage could burn, His cherish'd relics they collect, and lay In decent order in the cover'd urn.

With this short verse the stone they next impress: (The treasur'd dust placed to denote above,) "He who sepulchred lies in this recess, Was teacher of the tender art of love."

Here Cytherea's self, with snow-white hand, Sheds sacred dews in seven free sprinklings round, And for the Bard remov'd, the Muse's band Pour strains my lays may not attempt to sound.

NAPOLEON.

BY ISAAC CLASON.—1825.

I love no land so well as that of France— Land of Napoleon and Charlemagne, Renowned for valour, women, wit, and dance, For racy Burgundy and bright Champagne, Whose only word in battle was advance; While that Grand Genius, who seemed born to reign, Greater than Ammon's son, who boasted birth From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth,

Greater than he who wore his buskins high, A Venus armed impressed upon his seal; Who smiled at poor Calphurnia's prophecy, Nor feared the stroke he soon was doomed to feel. Who on the Ides of March breathed his last sigh As Brutus pluck'd away his "cursed steel," Exclaiming, as he expired "Et tu, Brute," But Brutus thought he only did his duty.

Greater than he, who, at nine years of age, On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate; Who with a rancour time could ne'er assuage, With feelings no reverse could moderate; With talents such as few would dare engage, With hopes that no misfortune could abate— Died like his rival—both with broken hearts; Such was their fate, and such was Bonaparte's.

Napoleon Bonaparte! thy name shall live Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound; And if Eternity's confines can give To space reverberation round and round The spheres of Heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive Napoleon," in thunders shall rebound; The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky!

What though on St. Helena's rocky shore Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, Perhaps that son, the child thou did'st adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd To crush the bigot Bourbon, and restore Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consum'd; Perhaps may run the course thyself did'st run, And light the world as comets light the sun.

'Tis better thou art gone, 'twere sad to see Beneath an "imbecile's impotant reign" Thine own unvanquished legions doomed to be Cursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain; That land so glorious once in chivalry, Now sunk in slavery and in shame again; To see th' imperial guard, thy dauntless band, Made tools for such a wretch as Ferdinand.

Farewell, Napoleon! thine hour is past; No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name; But France, unhappy France shall long contrast Thy deeds with those of worthless D'AngoulÊme. Ye gods! how long shall Slavery's thraldom last? Will France alone remain for ever tame? Say, will no Wallace, will no Washington, Scourge from thy soil the infamous Bourbon?

Is Freedom dead? is Nero's reign restored? Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz; The first, which made thy emperor the lord Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits Great Frederick William; he, who, at the board Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; Frederick, the King of regimental tailors, As Hudson Lowe, the very prince of jailors.

Farewell, Napoleon! had'st thou have died The coward scorpion's death, afraid, asham'd To meet Adversity's advancing tide, The weak had praised thee, but the wiser had blam'd; But no! though torn from country, child, and bride, With spirit unsubdued, with soul untam'd, Great in misfortune as in glory high, Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony.

Pity, for thee shall weep her fountains dry; Mercy, for thee shall bankrupt all her store; Valour shall pluck a garland from on high, And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er; Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky, And smiling seraphs open wide Heav'n's door; Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet.

Farewell, Napoleon! a long farewell, A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dare wake his harp to tell, Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy name, that with its magic spell Arous'd the slumb'ring nations of the earth, Echoes around thy land; 'tis past—at length France sinks beneath the sway of Charles the Tenth.

THE BUTTERFLY.

BY R. C. SANDS.

[From the French of De la Martine.]

Born with the spring, and with the roses dying, Through the clear sky on Zephyr's pinion sailing, On the young flowret's opening bosom lying, Perfume and light and the blue air inhaling, Shaking the thin dust from its wings, and fleeing, And fading like a breath in boundless heaven,— Such is the butterfly's enchanted being; How like desire, to which no rest is given, Which still uneasy, rifling every treasure, Returns at last above to seek for purer pleasure.

FRAGMENT.

BY ISAAC CLASON.—1825.

BY WILLIAM LEGGETT.

And is this all remains of thee, Beloved in youth so well? Of all the charms that threw o'er me Affection's sweetest spell— The eye that beamed with light of mind, The heart so warm and so refined, This only left to tell? Yet well does it recall again The form beloved—alas! in vain.

Sad relic! but few months are fled Since thou didst grace the brow Of her, who in death's marble bed Is coldly sleeping now! And when I leave my native home O'er ocean's pathless waste to roam, With many a whispered vow Did she this raven tress confer, And called thee, Love's Remembrancer.

I placed thee next my throbbing heart, Where soon I hoped to fold The maid of whom alone thou art All I can e'er behold! And often, on the moonlight sea, I've stolen a glance of love at thee, While pleasure's tear-drop rolled To think I should soon cross the main, And meet my love—no, ne'er again!

At last our bark return'd once more O'er ocean's heaving breast; And lightly on my native shore My thrilling footsteps pressed: With breathless haste I sought the form That, day and night, through calm and storm, Had been my bosom's guest— I sought—but ah! the grave had closed Above that form, in death reposed!

Dear gift! when now thou meet'st my gaze, What burning thoughts arise! O, how the soul of other days Comes gushing from mine eyes! I do not weep o'er pleasures fled; Nor mourn I that the loved one's dead: But when remembrance flies Back o'er the scenes of early years, In vain would I suppress my tears!

I weep—yet scarce know why I weep— For I would not recall That being from her dreamless sleep— I would not lift the pall That shrouds her cold and pulseless breast— No! if a word could break her rest, And give back life, love, all That once made life so bright, so dear, I could not—could not—wish her here!

Now let the tempest pour its wrath On my devoted head! The clouds that lower upon my path Cannot disturb the dead: And oh! 'tis something still to know, Howe'er mine eyes with anguish flow, No tears can e'er be shed By her, who, snatched in loveliest bloom, Lies mouldering in an early tomb.

Life's burden I have learned to bear, But I would bear alone, Nor have one other heart to share The pangs that rend my own! Yes, yes, loved pledge! where now nay view Is fixed upon the raven hue, It softens sorrow's moan To know—whate'er 'tis mine to brave— Affliction cannot pierce the grave!

TO THE DYING YEAR.

BY J. G. BROOKS.

Thou desolate and dying year! Emblem of transitory man, Whose wearisome and wild career Like thine is bounded to a span; It seems but as a little day Since nature smiled upon thy birth, And Spring came forth in fair array, To dance upon the joyous earth.

Sad alteration! now how lone, How verdureless is nature's breast, Where ruin makes his empire known, In Autumn's yellow vesture drest; The sprightly bird, whose carol sweet Broke on the breath of early day, The summer flowers she loved to greet; The bird, the flowers, Oh! where are they?

Thou desolate and dying year! Yet lovely in thy lifelessness As beauty stretched upon the bier, In death's clay cold, and dark caress; There's loveliness in thy decay, Which breathes, which lingers on thee still, Like memory's mild and cheering ray Beaming upon the night of ill.

Yet, yet, the radiance is not gone, Which shed a richness o'er the scene, Which smiled upon the golden dawn, When skies were brilliant and serene; Oh! still a melancholy smile Gleams upon Nature's aspect fair, To charm the eye a little while, Ere ruin spreads his mantle there!

Thou desolate and dying year! Since time entwined thy vernal wreath, How often love hath shed the tear, And knelt beside the bed of death; How many hearts that lightly sprung When joy was blooming but to die, Their finest chords by death unstrung, Have yielded life's expiring sigh,

And pillowed low beneath the clay, Have ceased to melt, to breathe, to burn; The proud, the gentle, and the gay, Gathered unto the mouldering urn; While freshly flowed the frequent tear For love bereft, affection fled; For all that were our blessings here, The loved, the lost, the sainted dead!

Thou desolate and dying year! The musing spirit finds in thee Lessons, impressive and serene, Of deep and stern morality; Thou teachest how the germ of youth, Which blooms in being's dawning day, Planted by nature, reared by truth, Withers like thee in dark decay.

Promise of youth! fair as the form Of Heaven's benign and golden bow, Thy smiling arch begirds the storm, And sheds a light on every wo; Hope wakes for thee, and to her tongue, A tone of melody is given, As if her magic voice were strung With the empyreal fire of Heaven.

And love which never can expire, Whose origin is from on high, Throws o'er thy morn a ray of fire, From the pure fountains of the sky; That ray which glows and brightens still Unchanged, eternal and divine; Where seraphs own its holy thrill, And bow before its gleaming shrine.

Thou desolate and dying year! Prophetic of our final fall; Thy buds are gone, thy leaves are sear, Thy beauties shrouded in the pall; And all the garniture that shed, A brilliancy upon thy prime, Hath like a morning vision fled Unto the expanded grave of time.

Time! Time! in thy triumphal flight, How all life's phantoms fleet away; The smile of hope, and young delight, Fame's meteor beam, and Fancy's ray: They fade; and on the heaving tide, Rolling its stormy waves afar, Are borne the wreck of human pride, The broken wreck of Fortune's war.

There in disorder, dark and wild, Are seen the fabrics once so high; Which mortal vanity had piled As emblems of eternity! And deemed the stately piles, whose forms Frowned in their majesty sublime, Would stand unshaken by the storms That gathered round the brow of Time.

Thou desolate and dying year! Earth's brightest pleasures fade like thine; Like evening shadows disappear, And leave the spirit to repine. The stream of life that used to pour Its fresh and sparkling waters on, While Fate stood watching on the shore, And numbered all the moments gone:—

Where hath the morning splendour flown, Which danced upon that crystal stream? Where are the joys to childhood known, When life was an enchanted dream? Enveloped in the starless night, Which destiny hath overspread; Enroll'd upon that trackless flight Where the death wing of time hath sped!

Oh! thus hath life its even-tide Of sorrow, loneliness, and grief; And thus divested of its pride, It withers like the yellow leaf: Oh! such is life's autumnal bower, When plundered of its summer bloom; And such is life's autumnal hour, Which heralds man unto the tomb!

New-York:

Printed by Scatcherd & Adams,

No. 38 Gold Street.

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